Cat and Mouse
by chickpeamartini
Summary: Ana wakes up in an unknown bed, in a strange room. She has been kidnapped. When she discovers its the lonesome & lovelorn billionaire Christian Grey that is holding her captive in a room, what will happen? Will she escape or will she grow to love the damaged man that he is? OOC,AU. DARK, uncomfortable themes. Loosely inspired by Beauty & the Beast, contains kidnap/child abuse. HEA.
1. Chapter 1

**_I am just writing fan-fiction as something fun to do in my spare time. I am making no profit out of this._**

 ** _Sorry, this is me again. I am still writing my previous story so don't worry. I just have gotten ideas come to me from left, right, and center, and such a wonderfully warm reception over my other story made me feel like letting more story ideas come together._**

 ** _I don't know if anyone will like the idea of this one, but its a kidnap story. Yes, Christian kidnaps Ana after seeing her in a club. The rest will eventually be revealed._**

 ** _I was trying to find a story like this similar, but as far as I could see, I couldn't find any. So this is my attempt :) There will be no rape or anything horrible like that. This will essentially be a HEA, but its a long way to go to reach there. The concept alone of kidnap may be very disturbing, and Christian may be quite creepy. I have just always particularly loved horror films and ones featuring kidnap, so this will be my attempt._**

* * *

 _ **Cat & Mouse**_

When I wake up, I notice everything is dramatically wrong about my surroundings. I'm not in my bed; The one that I sleep in where I live with my best friend Kate Kavanagh as roommates. The sheets I'm cocooned in feel luxurious, like Egyptian cotton, not like my normal flannelette ones. Sitting up, I study my surroundings with shallow breaths.

The entire room isn't familiar at all; It's larger, spacious. It reminds me almost of a spare room inside someone's house, or a hotel room at the very least. It's modern with stainless steel dome lamps with a white, fluffy carpet square covering half of the floorboards. There are two white bedside drawers on each side of the bed, and that's it. No other important pieces of furniture but the bed. A plastic tray on one bedside table to the left of me near a dome lamp with what looks like a glass of orange juice and a jug of chilled water. Two empty glasses. No knives or cutlery. No food for me. Just water and orange juice.

The curtains are wide open, letting the early morning light in, but there are what looks like thick iron bars behind the glass.

The ceiling and the entire room I'm in isn't in anyway similar to the one I have been sleeping in for the past three months ever since moving to Seattle with Kate.

 _So where the hell am I? What am I doing here?_

My eyes dart around the room again as the fear settles in even deeper. I don't remember coming here. In fact, I don't remember much of all last night, except for heading out with Kate to a few different clubs, having celebratory drinks and tequila shots for finishing our finals, stuff most girls my age do, nothing really that out of the ordinary.

 _So why am I here, of all places? More importantly, if I don't remember getting here myself then... who put me here? Why?_

Panicking isn't going to help though, I tell myself, trying to remain calm. There has to be a logical explanation as to why I'm here.

As I try to think back rationally on the events of last night, it sinks in just how uncomfortable I feel. I feel... different somehow. My nose feels particularly clogged up and my head is aching dully. It could just be the effects of suffering my first-ever hangover, but that doesn't make sense.

As I scan through my memory of what had happened last night, I come up blank, as far as what happened after we went to the second club.

I remember certain things: Drinking a few glasses of white wine at the apartment with Kate as pre-starter drinks while getting ready. Heading out to one club, drinking two shots, then changing our minds because it was too crowded and heading out to the next place.

Having a few cocktails, though I can't recall the precise number of how many we each had. Dancing together, doing fun, girly harmless things while tipsy and relaxed. Kate spotting a guy with longish, light brown hair who she thought was gorgeous.

These are all the things I remember from last night, yet not for the life of me can I remember how we left the club, or why I ended up here in this unknown place, in this unknown comfortable bed.

 _God, what had I done last night to get me here in this room?_

Throwing the sheets off me, I glance down at what I am wearing, checking. It's still the party dress I chose to wear last night, so someone hadn't bothered to undress me at the very least. At least I hadn't been picked up by some desperate horny guy, and had sex with him here at his house in this bed. _Or had I?_

Sliding out of the bed, my bare feet hit cold floorboards and I shiver, moving towards the door quickly. If there is one thing I want to do, its find my wallet and my shoes, and get out of here as quickly as I possibly can, maybe even try to avoid the whole walk of shame thing while I do it. Grasping the doorknob, I turn it.

I feel my blood turn cold as ice as I try to twist the doorknob again, this time wrapping both hands around the brass knob at the same time. Using all the strength I have in both hands, I yank and pull, trying to get the door to come open, only to no avail. It just rattles and shakes loudly with all the effort I'm using. It won't open, I realize in terror. I'm locked in. _Now why the hell would someone lock me into a room like this? What is going on here?_

Using one of the breathing techniques I have learned over the past year to calm me down and reduce stress while seeing a counselor at my college, I put both hands on each knee, ducking my head low towards them, focusing on breathing deeply. In, out. In, out. _Everything is going to be fine. You are going to get out of here in the next minute or so. Let's not overreact and make it worse by suffering one of your panic attacks right now, Ana._

Lifting my head out from my knees, I look around again, clenching my hands together tightly. Seeing what's up on the corner of the ceiling doesn't exactly ease my anxiety any. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel all the little hairs on the nape of my neck rise when I realize what must be happening outside that door, in another room of the house.

There is a camera on the ceiling, no doubt recording me while I move around the room, freaking out. It can only mean one thing:

 _Someone is watching me. But who and why?_

"Who are you?" I bring myself to ask in a tremulous and loud voice at the camera, my eyes growing wet and stinging. My voice seems to echo around the room creepily. "What do you want from me? Why am I here like this and why did you bring me here?" I pause, breathing loudly.

I don't know why I am expecting for the camera to answer back, but what I do know, is that some sick pervert is watching my every movement.

When no answer or noise comes in response, anger burns within me. "Listen, why is the door locked? I want to leave, so why don't you get your fat ass off the chair you are no doubt sitting in now to watch me like some sicko that gets off on watching girls like this and actually come unlock it so I can get out of here already?"

 _I won't freak out_ , I tell myself, over and over, when still no response comes. I grit my teeth, staring up into the lens of the camera helplessly, wrapping my arms around myself, squeezing tight. _I won't break down, I won't be defeated in this situation. Whoever this person is that is doing this to me in keeping me locked in this room, they had better let me out. And quickly._

 ** _WHAT DID YOU THINK? I don't know if its too weird or disturbing, but let me know if its something you would be interested in reading more of anyway. It will go up to an M rating likely, and I intend to make Ana have good survival instincts (i.e, what Ray taught her as a kid to defend herself). All will be revealed in due time of why he has kidnapped her and what it is that he wants from her, as well as Christian's identity to her. Thanks for reading :)_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_I am just writing fan-fiction as something fun to do in my spare time. I am making no profit out of this._**

 ** _Thank you so much for your kind responses and interest in the story. Hope you like this one._**

* * *

 _ **CHAPTER TWO**_

Since my options are undoubtedly limited right now, I have no choice but to sit back on the bed, focusing on breathing deeply and keeping myself calm while I have a go at yet again thinking this bizarre situation rationally through.

I really wish I had something else to wear other than this stupid, thin dress I wore last night. I find the room both depressing and freezing despite the curtains being open in the room, letting the early morning rays of light in, so I burrow back under the sheets, holding them bunched up tight around my waist as I try to process this once again.

I really have no idea what I have done to deserve this. Why would someone keep me locked in a room like this? I could cry hysterically and scream my lungs out for whoever is doing this to let me out; I could curse at the camera even, swear my guts out. Threaten whoever is watching me behind their screen, and yet, what good will that do?

I can't let myself cry and panic too much right now. I need to keep as level-headed as I possibly am able to. There are more important things to do, like figuring this out. What are their reasons or motivations in keeping me here?

But I always personally felt that I was a good person; I was kind, and never intentionally mean or hurtful to anyone. Kate sometimes called me a pushover due to that, but had I done something recently to make anyone feel compelled to do this to me? Had I gotten on someone's bad side recently? As far as I knew, I hadn't.

Had I pissed someone off last night? Had I met someone while drunk last night, doing something mean to them that would spur them into reacting this way, in locking me in a room like this?

Deciding that I'm overthinking this, I climb off the bed again, this time taking the sheets and dragging them with me towards the window. When I peer outside, I really wish I hadn't bothered. Through the iron bars, I see how far I am up in the air. I think I'm still in Seattle, judging by the high skyscrapers I recognize.

It makes me feel slightly better to know that I haven't been abducted to some strange place I have never been before, but its only a tiny, minuscule comfort. Recognizing I am still in Seattle, it calms me down in an amazing way, but not enough to keep the terror at bay.

I'm in a high building, about highest as some of the other known Seattle skyscrapers. Even growing my hair outrageously long like Rapunzel and throwing it out the window as a makeshift ladder isn't going to save me from the fact that its going to be harder to get out of here, knowing now that I am trapped in such a high building, about a humongous fifteen feet up in the air in the room that I am confined in.

 _Yeah, thinking about this definitely isn't helping much either..._

I wonder what the time is right now. I think I can see tiny cars moving if I look down far enough. It's already morning, I know that much, though its impossible to tell what time it actually is. Whoever has done this to me, they haven't provided me a clock to identify what time it is.

I think about what I would be doing, if I had managed to return back home last night rather than waking here. I would get up, make a cup of tea, then Kate would get up and we would talk and laugh about our night out drinking and partying. Maybe we would even moan about how shitty we were feeling due to our hangovers. Where is she right now? Is she home? Has she even noticed I'm gone and that I disappeared last night? That I hadn't made it home with her?

More importantly, has Kate noticed its fishy that I'm not at the apartment? Has she contacted the police already and notified them that I am away? It's really the only thing I can do right now. Hope to God that she had notified the police, that at least someone is already out there looking for me, noticing I've gone.

Its the only thing I can cling to right now; that burst of hope that Kate and everyone is looking for me, noticing something is drastically wrong.

Just the need alone for Kate to have alerted the police, it makes me ache with such need and desperation. Leaning forward, I press my forehead against the cold glass, inhaling in deeply through my nose as I clench my eyes closed tight. _Please, let Kate notice there is something fishy about me not returning to the apartment last night. Please oh please, let her be worried and call the police so that at least someone is out there looking for me!_

Because, whoever has done this to me, whoever they are... their intentions clearly can't be for something all that good. Much as I would prefer not to, I can't pretend that there isn't a possibility there that they have me here to rape me or molest me or just do some generally terrible and degrading things to me. For all I know, I could be dead by next week, left skin-and-bone from starvation.

The unexpected sound of footsteps walking sedately towards the door of the room I'm locked in makes me reel back from the window, immediately alert and tense. Unsure of what to do and what is the best way to protect myself, I move back, staring at the door until my back hits the wall furthest from the door. I hear a key being inserted in, then the telling sound of a lock clicking undone.

 _Okay, here we go. Now its time to meet whichever sick fuck is doing this to me..._

It's impossible to keep strong when I don't have the faintest idea of what could happen in the next few seconds, but I try my best. I tighten my grasp on the blankets around my body, my fingers digging into the sheets like claws, as the door finally creaks slowly open.

I consider catching my captor off-guard in making a sudden and unexpected move towards the door, but really, I think the best way about approaching this is figuring out who I am dealing with first.

Shivering, I keep my eyes on nothing else but what awaits me behind that door. When the person finally does step into the room, I size them up, taking inventory of a few important things.

This person is a male, I think, judging by the clothes they are wearing and their body type and build. Tall, at around six feet, and slender yet muscular at the same time, in a black zip-up jacket and black jeans.

I can't see their face or who they are; They have made that downright impossible for me with the black balaclava or stocking thing they have completely concealing their face to me. There are just simply holes in the mouth and around the eyes so that they can see and breathe without trouble.

They just stand completely still obstructing the only way out of the room, mouth parted through the hole, their eyes flickering around the room before they land on me as they breathe heavily.

The eyes- they look familiar to me, somehow. The shape of them and the color of them, an intense gray. I think I've met this person before, yet nothing comes to me; No names or faces remembered. I just recognize those eyes somehow. _God, why are they so familiar to me?_ Their familiarity doesn't make this any less freaky regardless.

Still, I see the wide-eyed caution in his gray eyes as he steps a foot closer towards me. Without really meaning to, I flinch, hitting my shoulder against the wall with a short hiss of pain. That causes him to immediately stop, and slowly, he raises both hands, palms facing upwards, in my direction. It's a sign of coming in peace, that he means me no real harm. _How ironic though..._

"You don't need to be afraid," he speaks finally in a voice hardly above a whisper. "I would never seriously hurt you, Anastasia."

My heart seems to plummet down below my navel in dread when I hear him say my name. Jesus, he even knows my name. How does he know who I am? His voice sounds familiar to me, even. I know I have heard that voice before, just like I have seen those eyes before. But not for the life of me can I put two and two together right now, joining the dots onto just who this man is.

He's clearly inexperienced, whoever this guy is. He hasn't done this before, in kidnapping someone and locking them away in a room. At least there is no cold dead-eyed look in his eyes like no doubt serial killers have; That's another one small thing to hold onto.

 _But he says he won't ever seriously hurt me? What bullshit._ "That's bullshit," I whisper out furiously before I am able to stop myself. "You say you won't ever harm me, yet... what are you doing right now?" Though I don't want to glance away for a single second out of fear he will attack, I move my eyes around the room for emphasize to make my point before meeting his gaze again. "Then what the hell do you call this? What are you doing to me right now?"

"I'm not doing this because I intend to hurt you. This isn't why I am doing this." It's a hiss through his teeth, like I have somehow insulted him by accusing him of such a thing.

"Then _why_ are you doing this to me? What do you plan to do to me exactly?" I hate how weak my voice sounds, how fragile and scared. It betrays me, and I don't want to give this guy the satisfaction of knowing I'm frightened out of my wits. " _How_ did I even get here? Who _are_ you?"

The man's breathing seems to get even louder and unsteady as his eyes flicker around the room again. "You don't remember?"

" _Remember_? Remember _what,_ exactly?"

I catch it out of the corner of my eye as he starts moving towards me again with deliberate slowness. I scurry away, moving blindly to the side. I don't want him anywhere near me, not when not knowing what he intends to do to me or why he is doing this to me, no less. He stops still again, watching me. The way he stares so piercingly, even through those eye-holes, its disturbing. He shows his hands to me again, in what I suppose he feels is a placating manner. It has the opposite of its intended effect. Nothing really could calm me down right now, not until I completely understood.

"I went out last night and had a few celebratory drinks and now I'm here. I just remember going to a club last night with my friend, and that's about it. I don't remember how I got here or why I'm here, no less." I suck in a deep breath, holding the sheets to my body even tighter. _Keep calm, Steele. Try to get him to talk. "_ Did you bring me back here yourself?"

He nods once, his eyes still on nothing else but me. "I did, yes. I carried you back here myself."

He carried me back here? But then why can't I remember that? Surely I wasn't that drunk last night. "And then what? You put me to bed?"

"Of course, I did." He shrugs, like its no big deal to him. "You were passed out, Anastasia. What else could I do?"

 _My head reels. I was passed out? Is that why I am finding it increasingly difficult to remember anything? Because I was passed out?_ It doesn't make any sort of sense though. Kate was with me. If this guy was there in the club too, wouldn't Kate have preferred to take me home herself and not leave me passed out with some strange guy we didn't know? Wouldn't she want to protect and look after her drunk friend, rather than let this obvious psycho take me home? I would have done that for her, no ifs or buts about it.

"And what did you do to me when you bought me back here and put me into bed while I was passed out?" I demand angrily, though a part of me is petrified by truly knowing what the answer might be to that question. "What? Did you steal a peek up my dress? Cop a feel while you knew I couldn't do anything about it like the... the psycho that you obviously are for doing this to me?"

He could have done literally anything to me, couldn't he have? Raped me and done perverted things while I was knocked out cold.

 _Oh, god, he could have done all sorts of sick and twisted things to me._

His mouth opens- he is gaping and shocked by my accusations, I think- and he glances away quickly, as if embarrassed.

"Believe it or not, necrophilia isn't really my thing. If I _was_ going to do anything like that with you, I would prefer it to be with you awake and it consensual."

 _Consensual? Yeah, like that will ever happen..._

"Right. And you expect me to believe that?" I mutter, eyeing the open doorway again. He's standing about a meter away from it. I could easily get past him, if I was quick enough. Really, I just want to get out of here already. I just want to be free of this situation completely. "Can I go home?" I ask desperately. "What I really want right now, is to go home."

"This _is_ your home now," I think I hear him mumble. It's very nearly enough to push me over the edge.

"Home? _Here_? This is _not_ my home, and I have _no idea_ who you are!" I glance at him in disbelief, enraged. I really wish he would take that stupid balaclava off so that I can see his face. "Why are you wearing that stupid thing over your head and are hiding your face from me? Why don't you take it off and show me who you really are already?"

The man pauses for a moment, licking his lips. I can tell he is trying to come up with a good enough excuse. "I just can't. Not yet, Anastasia." Despite my furious shouting at him, he seems patient and calm. "I don't think you are ready for that quite yet."

 _Not ready? Is he kidding me?_ "Why wouldn't I be ready? I think you're just mainly too scared to show your face to me because you're _nothing more_ than a _coward._ " I press my lips together, telling myself sternly to shut up. I really shouldn't be antagonizing this guy, especially when realistically whether I die or live comes down to him. I just can't help it.

Making up my mind, I start to cross the room briskly, letting the sheets fall to the floor. There is no time to hesitate or talk any longer. I know what I need, and its to get out of here immediately. He lets me walk straight past him, and just as I reach the entryway, my heart soaring in relief, the tables are quickly turned.

The man's hands come around my upper arms, holding me back. My father Ray taught me when I was a kid all about stranger danger and how to protect yourself. In a situation like this, its really the perfect time to put some of the skills he taught me to use. I can hardly think straight as I struggle against him. I am no match for him physically, and I learn that brutally, when he manages to fling me back inside the room. I stumble, losing my footing momentarily. And then he is on top of me, keeping me flat on my back, pinned beneath him.

I try to hit him and lash out with my arms, even use my fingernails to claw at whatever bit of his skin I can find, but he manages to catch them, seizing them with both my wrists in one hand, wrenching them above my head. Even as I thrash underneath him, sobbing desperately and panting, I realize its no use. It's hopeless. I can't get free and I can't fight him off. He's just far too stronger than me.

"Get off," I snarl, moving my feet out from underneath his legs. I manage to kick him in the shin with the back of my ankle and he makes a loud noise, but it isn't enough to completely throw him off. "Just get _the fuck_ off me! Who are you and what do you _want_ from me?"

"You can't leave me and I can't let you," he breathes roughly, shifting so that the full weight of his body is keeping me still and rigid. When I meet his gray eyes again through the holes, I can see the excitement in them, the slight curl of his lips. This is arousing him; This is a big thrill to him, having me fight, I realize. "I meant what I said. I have no intentions to hurt you, not ever. But I can't let you leave, not until what I bought you here for in the first place is complete."

 _What he bought me here for in the first place?_

 ** _Hope this chapter was okay? I know this is probably different and way out of character but I hope you won't mind? I am having such fun writing anyway, and I hope you will enjoy reading it too. Your thoughts are most appreciated, so please do let me know if I'm doing okay._**


	3. Chapter 3

**_I am just writing fan-fiction as something fun to do in my spare time. I am making no profit out of this._**

 ** _Thank you so much for your kind responses and interest in the story. I know its very different and kind of creepy, but I hope you are finding some enjoyment in it._**

* * *

 _ **CHAPTER THREE**_

When he finally releases his hold on my wrists, he rolls off me. I sit up, curling into myself, pulling my knees up into my chest, hugging myself as a way to keep calm when he leans back on his knees, breathing heavily.

We are both panting loudly from what just happened on the floor, only when I steal a peek at him, he had obviously enjoyed it a lot more than I had. I can tell he is finding it hard not to smile as he tries to regain his breath after our roll and tumble on the floor, his eyes boring into mine. _What? Is this such an enjoyable game to him? Is he that sick and twisted that he actually enjoyed me fighting against him to get free?_

It's only when I've calmed down and my breathing is back to a fairly normal pace that a few things become glaringly obvious to me. I feel more thirsty than I did a few seconds ago, but I refuse to drink any of the orange juice or water on the drawer unless he can prove to me that he hasn't put some poison in it or some type of sedative to make me feel sleepy first. I don't want to risk it.

I also find myself needing to pee really badly. I don't know whether its what happened and the fear I felt while he was on top of me, or just the fact that I drank a lot of alcohol last night, but I feel ready to burst.

I glance around the room again. There's no toilet anywhere in the room that I can see, so where does he possibly expect me to relieve myself when I need to?

"What's wrong?" he asks quietly in concern. When I glance at him again, I see his eyes are squinted in confusion.

 _What's wrong? How dare he have the gall to ask me that. Everything is wrong here!_

"I... I need to go to the bathroom. Where am I supposed to go if... if there's no toilet in here? Or do you just expect me to pee in my underwear or in a pot?" I can't help the bitterness that escapes my tone.

He blinks at me slowly, even having the nerve to be amused. I can see it there, shining in his eyes. What the fuck is wrong with him?

"Of course I don't expect you to pee in your underwear or in a pot, Anastasia. I want you to feel comfortable and at home here."

 _Comfortable and at home? Yeah, right!_

I flinch uncontrollably when he gets to his feet, standing over me. Then I see one of his hands move, and I flinch even more when he outstretches it to me, fingers splayed. I don't want him touching me at all. I don't want his hands anywhere near me.

"It's all right," he whispers in a soothing voice, like I'm a child. "I just want to help you up."

"Well, no thank you," I mutter stiffly, lifting myself up on my own. His hand disappears into one pocket of his jacket, and I almost sense that he is going to bring something bad out, like a knife or a gun. My fears prove to be wrong when I see its just a man's business tie, probably even his.

"Put both hands out in front of you," he orders patiently. "I know you probably don't want me to do it, but I feel its a... necessary precaution. That way, I can show you where the bathroom is."

Sucking it up only because I am dying to use the toilet and nothing more, I hold my hands out obediently in front of me. I feel like I can't breathe properly when he starts tying my wrists together in front of me. I notice the way he ties it, almost effortlessly. He has obviously tied someone up before, I observe. The knot is intricate, something done with obvious expertise and skill.

"You've done this before," I whisper fearfully as he threads one side of the tie through the other. "Am I your first victim? Or your second?"

I don't know why I am bothering to ask, especially when I don't truly want to know. I don't want to know how many other girls he has kidnapped and held in this room; If he is a serial killer. But talking and keeping up conversation seems to help with the ordeal I'm in right now.

When I muster enough courage to glance up at him, I think his eyes look a little... disappointed. Really, I don't know why I keep bothering to look at him anyway. It isn't like I can see his face with that stupid thing covering it.

"You're my first and only," he says, giving the tie one last yank. I guess he feels its secure enough, because he moves away towards the door. I follow him, though not willingly. "I've never done this before. But if you mean _this_ exactly, in tying knots, I was something of a Boy Scout in high school." He says it like its meant to be a joke, something to make me laugh. Only I don't laugh. I find nothing hilarious about this situation at all.

"Well, aren't I lucky then?" I spit out angrily. "I'm your first trial subject. So what happens after I die? Will you find another replacement girl to do this to?"

He makes a deep grunting noise as if he is offended by my comment and startles me by placing a strong hand on the lower part of my back, pushing me along in front of him. "There won't be another to do this to. I'm a one woman type of man." Reaching a door in a narrow, carpeted hallway, he pushes it wide open, stepping back. "I'll wait right outside here. This here, is your bathroom. I have my own downstairs that I use so you don't have to worry about me invading your privacy."

 _Downstairs._ I mentally take note of that. There is another floor and I'm on the top one in a room.

"You can even feel free to use the spa-bath, for however long and for however many times a day you like. I want you to feel like this your new home or... a holiday."

I ignore him, simply because I feel so angry and outraged by his words. How he can think I would ever feel like I'm on holiday or that this place is home, its downright infuriating.

When I try to shut the bathroom door on myself for some privacy, I find it difficult with my wrists bound together the way they are. Maybe seeing that I am having trouble, he moves forward to shut the door for me. The instance it closes, I feel all the tension immediately leave my body.

The bathroom is all white tiles and a big-spa bath and mirror. White clean fluffy towels hang on racks. Pulling up my dress and pulling down my underwear proves difficult with my hands tied up, but I manage. It's the best feeling in the world to no longer have to pee and as I flush the button, I look around quickly, searching for something, _anything_ I can use that would come in handy. There is really nothing, though. Nothing in any cupboard that he has accidentally left in there. Can you use soap as a weapon?

He obviously has been planning this for awhile, so he meticulously thought about removing any potential weapons that I could somehow use on him.

At least he hasn't attacked me badly yet, but I still want to know his reasons into doing this to me.

I know he said he has never done this before in kidnapping someone and holding them in a room locked in, but I don't know whether to take him at face value or not. I don't know who he is and I don't know whether I should believe him. But he's doing this to me. Automatically, I think that alone shows that I cannot trust him or believe anything he says.

I hate that I hadn't tried to force that stupid balaclava off his head while I had the chance. I should have tried while I was struggling beneath him on the ground. I think it is what I need to see the most; See his face and what he looks like, and to be totally sure whether I know him or not. It would also help in him seeming more human and less scary if I could actually see all of him.

Forcing my troubles at the back of my mind for a second, I wash my hands, glancing up at my reflection in the mirror. I look like crap and as though I've been through hell and back, but in all things considered, I really am in hell right now, aren't I? At least I look the part, with my eyes swollen and puffy and my dark long hair and fringe all over the place.

Once I'm done and I manage to get the door open, surely enough he is there, waiting for me with his shoulder resting against the wall. I wonder how long I will be stuck with him and whether or not he will ever let me go.

"Let's get you back inside the room now," he says in a strangely gentle tone.

I have no choice but to allow him to push me along through the narrow hallway, but I feel my body go cold once we reach the open doorway into that room. I don't want to go in there, not just yet, because I know if I do, he'll just lock me in again. Who knows how long I will be forced to spend in there? Weeks? Months? What if I die in that room?

 ** _"_** Please," I beg desperately, going stiff and rigid at the idea of dying in that room all alone without so much as hearing from my parents or seeing Kate ever again. "I don't want to die just yet. So _if this is_ the main reason that you are doing this then... please don't kill me." A sob escapes my throat as I try to stare him down as beseechingly as possible. Maybe if I try to reason with him, it will eventually sink through to him about how wrong every part of this is? "I'm only twenty two and I feel that I have so much left to accomplish. I haven't properly lived yet. Surely you know that, right? Why would you want to kill me?"

I know I have succeeded in breaking him when he has to look away, averting my eyes as he unties the tie with stumbling fingers. I think I see a flicker of pity in his gray eyes as he blinks down at my wrists and the floor, avoiding me and everything; something that demonstrates to me that he isn't completely a heartless monster in doing this to me. He can be empathetic, too.

He opens his mouth, about to say something to me, then he seemingly hesitates. His mouth closes, he shakes his head, before finally, he says in a low voice, "Killing you is not my intention at all, Anastasia. With you dead, everything about this would be pointless. I wouldn't get what I...I wanted if I killed you."

I feel a huge wave of relief hit me as I wrap my arms over my waist, squeezing tight in an effort to stop myself from shaking so furiously. He sounds truthful enough that it isn't his main intention to kill me. Still, I know better than to believe him one-hundred-percent.

It would only be dumb to get my hopes up and believe him entirely.

He has already accomplished getting me here and keeping me locked away in this room. Hell, he practically even got on top of me while I was fighting against him on the floor, trying to escape through that unlocked door, and I caught that look of cruel amusement in his eyes. It tells me he is unstable and... dangerous, the fact he had it in his mind to do this to me, in bringing me back here to wherever I am to keep me locked up and confined in one room. It shows his pathway of thinking isn't one of a sane mind. Why should I trust his word when obviously he is sick and mentally-ill?

"Okay," I whisper, trying to remain calm and think rationally. "So you don't intend to kill me while you have me here like this."

It isn't easy to remain calm though, not when I feel absolutely terrified. I feel like I'm on-guard, like I'm extra vigilant. I don't want to so much as glance away from him or lose track of what he is doing for even one damn second in case I miss where he is about to attack me or do something else highly unpleasant to me. There are all these things going through my head, all these possible motivations. _If I could just firstly establish what it is that he wants from me..._

"Is this about money then? Are you... trying to hold me ransom by doing this?"

He still won't look me directly in the eye, but I hear the scoff he makes, like I am being amusing and ridiculous. He shoves the tie back into his jacket pocket.

"If this is what its about- you holding me for ransom, a bargaining-chip for money- then... you're going to be disappointed. I don't know where you have somehow gotten it into your head that my family or my parents are rich but I-"

"-It's _not_ about money and it _never will be_ about anything like money," he cuts over me impatiently, raising his head and meeting my eyes again. It's like I am pissing him off by coming to that conclusion.

 _Oh, well. Excuse me._

"I have enough money to last me the rest of my life, so why would I need more of it?"

 _He has enough money to last him the rest of his life?_ My mind goes into overdrive at that statement. Okay, so whoever he is, he is well-off? Rich, even? He isn't doing this for the means of getting money in a trade-off for my life. There goes all my little theories, though. Why else can he be doing this then? I wrack my brains. Why else do crazy people kidnap other people for, if its not for monetary reasons or because they intend to murder them eventually?

 _Oh, God. Some help being an avid book reader has given me over the years..._

I have read many books, trying to find the significant meaning of life, anything. Not any of those books I have read, my favorite romantic classics or anything else... have showed me how to deal with this situation right now. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to reason with this guy when I don't know why he is doing this to me in the first place?

Somehow, I sense him staring at me. When I lift my eyes to his again, I realize he is. Even the way he looks at me, with those piercing eyes that hardly blink... its enough to make me feel as though invisible spiders are crawling on me. It's disturbing. He is the first one to break eye-contact again, looking down at the floor. At least I know he isn't completely heartless. He has to feel pity for me, which is ironic, seeing as he is the one that is responsible for me being like this as I am right now.

But then I think back to how familiar he seems. His voice, the way he speaks, those... eyes. I think I know him, but no matter how hard I try to remember and make that connection, I come up blank, each and every single time. My heart surges as I recall something I read a couple of years ago, that most offenders are the ones you know, someone you are familiar with. I know I have met him before, because his voice and eyes are familiar to me. _Could this be why he has taken me? Because we have met once before?_

"You seem very... familiar," I observe. "Your eyes and your voice. I've met you before?" It's impossible to know whether I am right on that. The stupid balaclava he is wearing keeps any visible facial emotion from him concealed. I have only his eyes to go on, and he seems very keen to avoid letting me see them. "We've met once before, haven't we?"

I think I see his eyes close briefly before he reopens them again. I take that as a confirmation that I'm getting close. "We have met once before, yes." His voice is so low, I can barely hear him. He's panting heavily. I think I have him panicking. "But right now, that doesn't matter. Is there-"

"-No, it _does_ matter," I get out over him, my voice rising shrilly. "It matters _to me_! I _want to know_ who you are, and I want to know _right now_! If we've met before then... why are you doing this to me?" I shake my head, my eyes stinging. "Did I do something wrong that made you feel I deserve to be treated like this, like some..." I look around the room again wildly, the tears rolling down my cheeks as I struggle to find the right words to describe this nightmare, "...Some _animal_ that you lock away in a room?"

He recoils, moving away from me towards the door with his back to me, and I know I have at true last succeeded in breaking him down. It pleases me to no end, making me feel like grinning like a feral person, because he should feel bad about this. This is so wrong. _All_ of it.

"Oh, that's right," I hear myself laugh hysterically, losing it. I am so emotional, I am trembling; my arms at my sides, hands clenched into tight fists. "Just go back out that door and lock it up and leave me here to die without even being considerate enough to show me your face or tell me your reasons why!"

He stops abruptly at my words and I realize just how far I have pushed him. I consider retreating back to the safe area of the bed, yet I refuse to be the one to show how distraught I am over this. If I do, its him winning. I don't want him to win.

He stands in the doorway perfectly still, like he is waiting for me do something, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black zip-up jacket. Maybe he is even waiting for me to continue carrying on so that he can feel justified in doing something mean to me, I can't be sure what. When he turns to look at me again, he stares at me for a very long, very haunting moment. I realize his eyes are wet, like he is actually crying.

"I'll return in about ten minutes once you are done with your little tantrum," he says, his soft voice filled with emotion. _But little tantrum? How else does he expect me to react to this unthinkable, bat-shit crazy situation?_ "I wish you could believe me when I tell you that I have no intentions of hurting you, Anastasia." He sniffles loudly, his eyes welling up even more. "What happened before, when you tried to run through the door... it was only because _you_ forced me into doing it. I will try to be as reasonable as I possibly can, but if you keep trying to run and escape, then it is only natural that I am going to fight back."

"Well, how _about you_ just tell me what you want from me already and then I wouldn't try to escape?" I demand, pleased by the strength in my voice when the tears cascading down my cheeks and the violently shaking of my body reveal otherwise.

He ducks his head, thinking that over for a moment. It's like he is worried that he will reveal too much. I know I've won, when he sighs loudly through his mouth. "All I want, is for you to get to know me and for me to get to know you, Anastasia." He lifts his head, meeting my gaze again, his words broken, despondent. "It's all I've... ever wanted. Now is that so unreasonable and terrible to you?"

I stare at him, incredulous. _What? He wants us to get to know each other?_ I make myself wipe my eyes hastily on the back of my hands. "You want for us to get to know each other?" I repeat slowly.

"Yes, that's all. That's it."

It really doesn't make any sense. "Then why wouldn't you just ask me out or... I don't know? Suggest we go out for coffee together?" I mean, it's usually what normal people do, isn't it? But then, I have to remind myself, that evidently I am not dealing with such a normal person here. Clearly, his mind doesn't work the way mine does. "If you wanted to get to know me like you say you do, then why would you resort to doing this to me? In keeping me locked up in this room? Kidnapping me?"

I see the irritation building in his eyes as he stares at me as I say it, hardly blinking at all. _God, why does he have to stare? It's terrifying enough as it is without him staring at me._

"And _what_?" He snaps at me without warning, raising his voice. I recoil at his tone, flinging my arms over myself protectively. I've made him angry for some reason, and I don't know how. "What? You are saying that you would _actually agree_ to go out for coffee with me?" He spits every word out, mean disbelief there in his tone. "Yeah, right."

"I'm sure I would have agreed to it if you had asked me like any normal person would!" I shout at him, crying again. I didn't want to cry in front of him, but its like I can't stop. "How about you let me go now, and we can go get coffee together?"

The urgency I feel for it to happen, for him to release me before I have to stay an awful full day in here, it sends my voice shaking.

"Right now, we'll go get coffee together and talk and get to know each other. I wouldn't tell anyone about any of this, about you taking me here, and that way, you won't get into trouble!"

I step closer towards him, holding my arms out towards him pleadingly. This time, he is the one to recoil back, distancing himself even further from me.

I force a tight-lipped smile on my face, knowing I look a mess with a snotty nose and wet, red eyes from bawling so hard. "Doesn't that sound nice? Keeping me here, like this, I'll just feel like a prisoner and I won't be able to grow to be friends with you, because at the back of my mind... I'll resent you for doing this to me, deep down inside."

Though there is no way in hell that I want to touch him, I force myself to, grabbing his hand. His hand is warm and dry, and I can feel the sinewy strength in it. His hand is so much bigger than mine, like he could effortlessly wrap his fingers around my throat; A disturbing observation to make.

" _Please_. If you let me go now, though... I would see you as so wonderful and kind and someone I would truly love to get to know, rather than this... disgusting beast that is trying to hurt me and hold me captive here like this." I don't really know what I am trying to do exactly, but I think I am trying to reason with him. "We can go now and we can do whatever you want. Okay?"

I can tell he is seriously considering my offer. His gray eyes flit back and forth between my tear-streaked cheeks and my eyes, something resembling unmistakable warmth and compassion in them as I squeeze his hand with my trembling fingers. He's indecisive and conflicted, I think; He doesn't like me getting emotional and begging to be released, and maybe it wasn't something he expected I would do once he got me here. He brings his other hand up, and it takes all I have not to let my fear and distaste show, when he rests it against my cheek, holding his warm, rough-skinned palm to my skin in a disturbingly affectionate way.

I see his eyes close for a moment, like he is in ecstasy over getting to touch me.

But then, like a knife slicing through butter, he changes in a drastic way that sucks all hope out of me; He shoves my hand away brutally like my touch alone disgusts him, and I see the way his lips curl downward through the mouth hole of his balaclava.

I see his teeth grit. "I'm not blind like you seem to think I am," he breathes heavily, his eyes narrowing at me cuttingly. "I know fair well what you are trying to do, and I wouldn't waste your breath. You are here because I am incapable of leaving you alone anymore, and here is where you will stay until you start to yield to what I want."

 _Yield to what he wants? What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

"So tell me what you want? I...I thought you said that you wanted us to get to know each other?"

"That isn't just it," he hisses in frustration. "I want to give you the world."

 _Give me the world?_ "You can give _me freedom_ ," I point out, edging closer. "Freedom is good enough. All you have to do is-"

"Don't ask, Anastasia. Don't ask me to give you that. _Anything_ but that."

He's cold and evil and distant when he turns his back on me and ignores me, striding towards the door. I can hardly muster another word or plea through the shock when he slams the door shut loudly on me, locking it back up so I can't leave.

 **HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY? Hating it? Or Liking it?**

 **Sorry if its seriously creepy, I have just always wanted to write a story dealing with this type of theme LOL. And Christian more so is a lonely, lovesick man who desperately wants her to love him (where they met will be revealed shortly). He's just going about it in a wrong way to gain her affection (reasons on that will be revealed soon too). Am I writing them okay in this situation?**


	4. Chapter 4

**_I am just writing fan-fiction as something fun to do in my spare time. I am making no profit out of this._**

 ** _Thank you so much for your kind responses and interest in the story. I really do appreciate it, all your opinions. They are most welcome and I enjoy reading them. :)_**

 ** _Also, I hope you know I don't condone kidnapping in anyway whatsoever, and my heart goes out to the victims that have endured this in their lifetime._**

 ** _I understand that a story like this isn't everyone's cup of tea (everyone is different) so I don't expect every single person to like the story or even want to read it. I respect everyone's opinion and am thankful, really, and amazed by whatever response I get._**

* * *

 _ **CHAPTER FOUR**_

When I hear that key being inserted into the lock again about ten or so minutes later, I rush towards the bed, sitting down with my back facing the door so I won't have to endure seeing him again when he comes in.

I don't want to so much as even have to look at him right now, because it makes me feel overwhelmed with different emotions when I do. Anger, despair. I'm afraid that if I do let myself look at him again, it'll only just spur me on to do something terribly violent to him. I have never thought I could be capable of ever doing violent things to somebody, but with him, I think I may very well have the power to do it. He's _that_ frustrating to me.

The door creaks open and then... _nothing_. It's impossible to know what he is doing behind me, but I'm determined not to look in his direction. If he wants to keep me locked in here, then I refuse to show him any sort of respect, because he clearly isn't showing me it in exchange. Why should I respect him when he doesn't even respect my request to be freed out of this miserable room?

Even from where I sit on the mattress, facing the wall stubbornly while fiddling with my fingers in my lap with the blankets strewn halfway across my knees, I can sense and feel him staring at me. If he likes looking at me that much, then why doesn't he take a fucking picture or something?

"I'm sorry," I think I hear him mumble, and its then I can't help glancing behind my shoulder. I just need to be sure that he isn't close to me, that he won't try touching me. I find him standing a fair distance away by the open door. One hand disappears into his jacket, then he pulls out that striped grey business tie again. "Just _please_..." It's like a desperate whine as he pants shallowly, " _Please don't_ hate me."

I deliberately turn to look at the wall again, focusing on a faint smear on the eggshell-colored paint. I don't bother saying anything in response. He should feel sorry and while I think hate is going a bit too far, I _do_ feel I hate him in some way. What? Should I pretend otherwise and try to ease his mind just for the sake of making him feel better?

"There just wasn't any other way. I didn't know what else to do."

I have to press my lips together to stop myself from giving in to the temptation of shouting back at him, my eyes stinging with more tears.

"Like I just said, I'm... sorry. Sorry that I yelled at you a couple of minutes ago. I know I seem... unkind and cruel, but its the only way. I don't want to hurt you and I _am not going_ to, I _swear_ to you. I just want to get to know you and for you to get to know me, that's all."

I can't do it. I can't keep quiet anymore. "And _I_ told you," I say shakily. "I told you that if you wanted to get to know me... all you would have to do is ask like anyone else would. You wouldn't have had to do _all of this_ in trying to keep me locked up in here. We could have went out and spent time together if that's what you had wanted that badly from me?"

When I finally shift on the mattress to glance back at him, he looks down at his hands hastily while he fiddles with the tie he used to bind my hands together with while escorting me to the bathroom.

He's back to not wanting to meet my eyes again. I see the way his fingers tremble as he starts making a knot in the tie, like its absorbing all of his concentration. I know he is just truly afraid to see the fear and desperation in my eyes again like he had while I had pleaded for him to let me go.

"I had Taylor pick up some clothes for you. They're in the dresser near you." _Oh, great. He's even bothered to supply me clothes for my stay._ It's as though he believes if he goes out of his way to buy me things like clothes, I'll start to warm up to being here."I'm sure they are the right size, because I checked the tag on your dress when I carried you up here. But if they aren't to your liking then I can get Taylor to exchange them for something else you'll like more instead."

"Taylor?" I repeat nervously. _Is he not doing this alone? He has others doing this with him?_ "Who's he? Your accomplice?"

"My _accomplice_?" He makes a loud exhalation through his mouth at my words. When he glances up at me, he's smiling through the mouth hole. I think its the first time I have actually seen him smile. His teeth are straight. "Of course not. No, Taylor's just my driver."

" _Just_ your driver?"

"Yes, he's just my driver. Sometimes he does errands for me, other times he'll drive me places, hence me calling him my driver."

My mind races. Wouldn't this... Taylor guy think its strange that he sent him on an errand to purchase clothes for a woman? If Taylor hadn't seen him with a woman before then wouldn't he think its... suspicious? _Oh God, please let him think its suspicious enough to come into this... house and investigate on who he is buying the clothes for._

"And does Taylor know you've done this?" I ask, trying to not let any of the hope I feel seep through in my tone. "About what you are doing to me in keeping me locked up in here, in this room? How you won't let me go?"

"Taylor just _does,_ he doesn't... ask." I can see him smiling again as he pulls the knot loose from the tie with his fingers. "I've never actually had a girl here before so he probably suspects _something_. You're the only one that I have wanted enough to have back here in my house." He meets my gaze, something burning in his gray eyes. It's almost as though he expects me to feel humbled or flattered or something ridiculous like that. _Who on earth would possibly feel flattered or humbled about being kept against their will like this?_ "Then again, I think I've been fantasizing about this since the very first moment I met you."

 _I'm_ the one that has to glance away, feeling paralyzed and ice-cold in terror at his words. I lift my knees up against my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I feel sick. Sick and ill, at his words. "So you've fantasized about this?" I repeat slowly. " _This_ is what you fantasize about?" It's difficult not to raise my voice in disgust. "You fantasize about having me here like this? Making me _cry_ and making me _miserable_ because you're trapping me here? This is what _truly_ gets you off?"

"Of course not. You're misconstruing my words."

" _Am_ I?" I get out in disbelief. How can I be misconstruing them when he says he has been fantasizing about this? "But isn't that just what you just said? You fantasize about making me cry and keeping me locked away in here, depriving me of my freedom?"

"I didn't mean it quite that way," he argues back. "I just meant that I've wanted and dreamed of this, the chance for us to get to know each other like this. Not so much... _everything_ else." When I throw a look at him, he has an arm raised, hand resting on the top of his balaclava, his other hand holding the tie clenched into a tight ball. He's panting loudly, like I've gotten him on the defensive side. "I wish you wouldn't cry and do what you did before, because... it makes me upset when you do. I had envisioned this to go a whole lot differently than how it seems to be going right now."

"And _how_ did you expect me to react?" I ask through clenched teeth in irritation. "What? Am I supposed to act pleased that you are doing this to me? Am I supposed to get down on my knees and thank you? Express my gratitude for you doing this to me? Act all merry and happy?" He starts pacing back and forth, his head hung low. "Can you _really blame_ me for responding like this? Look, I'm sorry that I'm obviously not reacting the way your fantasies played out inside your head of having me here, but I... I _can't help_ it!"

He stills from pacing with his back to me, breathing strenuously as he lifts up the material on his black balaclava over the nape of his neck with his fingers, revealing his chin and the pale muscles of his throat. I think I see a faint pink, bumpy line under his chin. A scar maybe? Is that why he is so reluctant to show his face to me the way he is? Because of a scar or a facial disfigurement of some sort?

"Hot," he breathes quietly, turning to look in my direction again. I pretend I haven't noticed the scar, meeting his gaze again. I don't know if its a touchy subject for him or not- and God knows I don't want to risk getting him too angry- so I force myself to not mention it for the time being. "I wish I didn't have to wear this silly fucking thing. It makes my skin itch and the room feels more... hotter than it probably is."

"Then don't," I suggest readily with a shrug. "Don't bother wearing it then. It's not like I would care either way." I need to see who he is with a fiery passion. I really, _really_ need to. I need to know who he is so that I can finally make that actual mental connection on where it is that we have met before and just what his possible motives could be. "And besides, you clearly aren't intending to let me go anytime soon. What difference would it make if I saw your face while you keep me here?"

He sighs loudly, staring at me. "But that's the problem. I... I can't let you see my face."

"Why not? Too coward to show me who you really are?"

"It's not that." He pauses for a moment, pursing his lips in deliberation. It's like he can't find the right words. In the end, he lifts his arms in the air before smacking his fists against the side of his legs. "I just...I _know_ you'll find me repulsive."

 _I find you repulsive already just by keeping me here and not letting me go, so what difference will it make?_ I want to say to him, but I don't. I didn't particularly like the way he had raised his voice to me before when I begged for him to release me so that we could go out for coffee and talk together. I don't want him doing it again; I don't want to push him too far this time.

"Because of your scars?" I whisper before I am able to stop myself. "That scar above your throat?" Without realizing I am even doing it, I stroke the bottom of my chin with my thumbnail absently. "Is that why you are mainly afraid to show your actual face to me? Because you're... frightened of how I will react over the scar?"

I don't even need to be able to see his entire face to know he is shocked by what I am saying. I can see it there, in his wide, unblinking eyes. I guess he was hoping I wouldn't be paying as much attention of him to notice it there. His mouth presses into a grave thin line through the mouth hole of the balaclava and I can tell he isn't pleased by me mentioning it when he yanks the material right down under his jacket in an overly defensive, insecure way. His hands are shaking as he goes the extra mile to fix his jacket collar up.

So he _does_ have hang-ups about certain scars on him. It's why he won't show all of his face to me, because of his scars. He thinks I'll find him repulsive, yet scars aren't what would repulse me about him; It's his actions already and what he is doing to me now. Despite that, I can't help but wonder how he got them. How bad his scars are, how many of them he has. _Did someone do that to him? Or was he in some type of... accident that caused them?_

"No more questions of that right now, Anastasia. Aren't you going to drink your orange juice?" I can tell he is still disconcerted by my casual mentioning of his scars, because there's a look in his eyes. Something... far-away and distant. "After last night, you should definitely keep your hydration up. You must be thirsty."

His eyes flicker towards something across from me meaningfully, and I follow his gaze into the direction of where the glass of orange juice sits on the tray, along with the jug of chilled water. He's right; I haven't drank it yet, and I do feel thirsty, especially after all the crying and emotional stress he has put me through.

I don't realize how parched my mouth is until I swallow down saliva painfully. The juice- the brightness of it, the orange as bright as a sunset that I will probably never get to see ever again while being confined in this room by him- it teases me. It's tempting me, like it wants me to drink it down itself.

"Don't you like orange juice?" My captor asks softly, probably sensing my indecision. Then he grunts, like he has only just remembered something crucial. "Which reminds me, Anastasia... we'll have to go through everything later. What you like, what you don't like. What you'd want. _All_ of that, so that I can ensure that you are comfortable here and that you are left wanting nothing. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

"I... I suppose so." I lick my lips, moistening them. "It would be wasted effort, though."

"Oh? And why's that?"

When I bring my eyes to him again, I see his eyes are squinted as he watches me, like I'm something that's such a mystery to him, something unusual and exotic. I can only just imagine how creepier it will be once he no longer wears that balaclava in front of me, and yet, his eyes are enough alone to do the trick in disturbing me.

"Because nothing you do or give me will ever make me feel comfortable about being stuck here like this," I say honestly. "No matter how nice you treat me or how... much you make sure I am never without, I cannot be comfortable here like this."

"Then what can I do to ensure that you are?" _God, does he really even have to ask?_

"Freedom," I point out firmly. "Let me go."

"No can do, Anastasia. Not until I get what I want, _and then_ , we'll see about it."

He is so cryptic with not telling me in full detail of what he wants from me; it's driving me crazy. Some part of me wonders if he is doing it on purpose. "You said that you just want us to get to know each other. Is there... more that I'm missing?"

He hesitates for a moment, considering how to phrase it, it seems. "Partly. There... _is_ more that I want. More than for us to get to know each other... more than _anything_ else. I want you to _know_ me and _see_ me." His eyes drift down towards the left side of my chest, before he returns them to my eyes again. "What's... _underneath_ the skin."

I bite my lip as I think that over for a second. What else could there be though unless... he wants my body? My stomach clenches and I feel on the verge of hyperventilating at the idea of that. _Please, not my body. Please, not sexual stuff with me. I don't think I could ever give him that._

I decide I don't want to think about it anymore. If I shut it out as best as I am able to for at least awhile- that possibility- then I don't have to feel so much right now.

"Can I have a clock?" I ask quietly. It seems a reasonable enough demand. "I would like to have a clock so that I could at least see what the time is."

I can tell he is sickly pleased by my request when he nods once while tightening his lips in order to suppress a smile from showing. "I think that's allowable, Anastasia. Yes, you can have a clock to see what time it is."

I hesitate, because I think I already know it would be no good in trying for it. But then I decide that I really have nothing left to lose anymore. "And fresh air? An hour a day, I get to go outside into the fresh air and not stay confined in this horrible room." I can tell he doesn't feel too enthusiastic about that idea, so I say quickly, "I have a feeling I'll feel claustrophobic in this room. And who knows what I'll do if I get too claustrophobic?" I know I'm playing with fire here. Being manipulative even, but I don't give a shit. This is my life he is tampering with here. "I won't ever consider this my home then, if you deny me this one right. _Never_."

He sighs loudly through his nostrils, glancing away for a moment. _And it all boils down to this one moment..._

"All right," he agrees reluctantly after what feels like an eternity, Though I don't want to get my hopes up too much, my heart soars in relief. "I'll give you an hour and a half a day. I have a balcony. You can sit out there, but... I may need to ball gag you?"

 _Ball gag me? What the fuck?_

"As a precaution, of course," he explains hastily, perhaps seeing the terror in my eyes. "If you're outside, I can't risk anyone overhearing you if you scream for help."

"I _won't_ scream," I promise, though I don't know if I can actually keep that promise. "I won't. I'll just be happy to be outside, feeling the sun and the fresh air on my skin. I _won't_ do anything, I swear."

 _I might very well just throw myself off the balcony when you aren't looking if it gets too intolerable, but that's it..._

"Very well. But if you _do_ end up breaking your promises, I won't let you out there again." As if he feels we have made some good progress for now, he licks his lips, satisfaction glistening in his eyes. "Now drink your orange juice or the water. I can't have you dehydrated, Anastasia."

Though we've made some headway, I can't help tucking my knees in tighter when he starts to approach the bed without warning. He stops abruptly, showing me his hands again. "I won't hurt you like I said," he assures me, and I can tell he means it. Shoving the tie back in his pocket, he reaches down, grabbing the orange juice. "I want you to drink this for me."

I am very thirsty, so I might as well, shouldn't I?

I accept it from him, trying not to show how uneasy it makes me when his fingers brush against mine. Licking my lips again, I press the rim of the glass against them, about to drink. That's when I look up and notice he is watching me peculiarly.

 _Oh, shit! He's poisoned it! Put some sedative in it! How could I get so compliant?_

I drop the glass back onto the drawer, hardly caring that the contents slop and spill over onto the tray.

"What is it?" he asks me, sounding strangely breathless in confusion. "So you don't like orange juice?"

"I... I don't want it," I protest weakly. "I don't want it if you've slipped something in there. You must have. I... I can see it in your eyes."

"What?" He seems puzzled, staring at the glass. Then he looks back at me, and I think I see the recognition dawn into his eyes. He takes the glass, only he doesn't offer it to me again. He swallows a few mouthfuls down quickly before putting it back on the drawer. "I haven't put anything into it. See? Wouldn't something have happened to me just then if I had?"

I still don't know whether to trust him. _I won't._

 ** _HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY?_**

 ** _I will attempt to update every third day or a week, at the most. I just have things I must do in between, such as average day to day life, like working and spending time with my family. I do hope you are enjoying the story despite the subject matter._**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you so much. Hope you enjoy this one.**

 **As obvious, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. I am just a fan.**

 **Again, I don't condone kidnapping, etc. I just wanted to write something different.**

* * *

 _ **CHAPTER**_ _ **5**_

My captor honors his word about the clock. He disappears then returns with a clock and a hammer and nail, all Mr Handyman. He asks me where I want the clock to hang on the wall, and when I point out where I believe it would look best in the room, he actually listens to me.

He seems to bang the nail into the wall with the hammer with no trouble, like he has done it before. When he slips the hanger on the back of the clock to the wall, he steps back, looking at his work himself.

I can't help glancing at that hammer in his hand, though. I wonder if I could snatch it off him. Could I actually be brave enough to use it against him, clobbering him in the head?

The obvious answer to that, is no. I could never hurt him, as much as I wanted to. Only with my hands or my body, yes, but... not something that could cause fatal damage, like a knife or a hammer. But if he does start hurting me consistently in the worst way, who knows what I may be capable of if driven to extremities? I don't think I could become violent for anyone, not even if they threatened me or did something to me in the worst way. I can't hurt him. Even if I could- if miraculously I could overpower him and had the option of making him severely injured so that I could escape- I don't think I would want to.

So far, he has been treating me well. He hasn't physically violated me, just deny me of my rights which I suppose is mean enough. He seems so far just a tortured, lonely guy. Maybe something happened to him to make him this way? But so far, he has been treating me well to an extent. That is probably only because I have been here less than over five hours since first waking in the bed. The time on the clock says its 12.15, noon. I probably haven't been here as long as I thought I had been so far but... being in a room like this, I can tell the time will tend to go dreadfully slower already.

"I also have a gift for you that I feel you will appreciate."

"Okay?" I tense up as he leaves the room for a moment. Who knows what he will feel is a fitting gift for me? I am almost expecting him to bring in the bloody, sawn-off head of Kate or another family member of mine.

He makes his first mistake in leaving the hammer in the room. My fingers crave to grip the leather handle, to take a swing. I imagine myself doing that: He returns into the room, unknowing. First, I would swing hard enough to his head so that he would be knocked down. Then I would take off that stupid balaclava so that I can finally see who he is, figure out why he is doing this to me. Then I'd swing again, watching the blood splatter across the floor brilliantly red in color.

Even just imagining it, it makes my stomach churn because I know I could never do that. I could never intentionally hurt someone that badly, even if they were my worst enemy. It just isn't the way I am.

To my relief, he doesn't bring a dismembered head in or anything gruesome like that. He just brings in a thick brown parcel. As he hands it to me, I feel the weight of it, the heaviness.

"What is it?" I ask cautiously.

When I look up at him, I find him standing over me, almost on pins-and-needles to see what my reaction is to the gift. I have no idea what it could be, but what I do hope is that it isn't something just as sick as he obviously is.

"Don't ask me what it is, Anastasia. Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose of giving someone a gift? I want to see your reaction to it."

Swallowing down my fear, I start opening the parcel.

Inside, are three leather-bound books that look fairly old, though are in very good condition. Opening the cover on the first one, I inspect it. My heart seems to stop for one single second when I make out the title. It's one of my favorite books by Thomas Hardy, my favorite author. Three volumes of _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_.

He knows what my favorite author and book is. How? I don't remember telling anyone about that, aside from Kate.

And they are first editions, too. I remember looking up online out of curiosity for how much they would cost, and they were extremely valuable and expensive. How could he have afforded them? Or is he truly as well-off as he said before?

I would have appreciated it more if it hadn't told me one important, terrifying thing, though: That this man, whoever he is, knows I love Thomas Hardy's writing. If he knows about that, then what else does he somehow know about me?

"These are first editions," I whisper in shock, opening a page. The books are a little dusty, the paper yellowed from age. When I lift the book towards my nose, I inhale in the old musty smell. I know other people dislike the smell of old books, but I find it soothing. "How did you know I was a fan of Thomas Hardy and _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_?"

"You told me when we first met."

I told him when we first met? Once again, I try to scan my memory for any possible time we could have met where I would have told him that. Unfortunately I just come up blank again. I know he must have somehow been at the club I went out to with Kate last night, though; How else would I have ended up back here if he hadn't?

"When did we first meet?"

He hesitates for a moment, lifting a hand to rub his fingers along his bottom lip. I know its because he is worried that I will finally connect all the dots and have a epiphany on who he is. "About two months ago, I would say it was."

Two months ago? Then its truly no wonder why I wouldn't remember. I have done a lot in these past two months; Graduating, job applications.

"And I told you that _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ was my favorite?"

"You did. You said that Thomas Hardy was the first author that made you realize your love of reading. Do you like them?"

"Yes, I do." I hesitate to say it, because I don't want him to get the wrong impression. I don't want him to think I am thanking him for so many other things, like keeping me here against my will, that I am both forgiving him and excusing him for this. But I can't not show my manners and say it. "Thank you. These are... great. I know they are expensive, though? I looked online once out of curiosity and read that they were worth over fourteen thousand dollars?"

" _Sixteen_ thousand," he admits, sounding hopeful, like he wants to impress me. "I paid _sixteen_ thousand altogether."

 _God, that's a lot of money spent for a gift for me..._

"It's like I told you," he continues when I fail to say anything in response. I'm speechless that he would go to such trouble for me. "I have a lot of money to spare. It was worth it, just to get a glimpse of the look on your face once you opened it and saw what it was."

"Well, thank you," I force myself to say again. "It's... kind of you."

His gray eyes light up. I have him pleased. "You're very welcome."

On the bright side, it will make my time here go by quicker. I can read until hopefully I can find some way to escape from this prison that he has me in. Stacking the books carefully in order and placing them back into the brown paper of the parcel, I sit them down on the floor near the bed.

"I'll have to get you a bookshelf."

"How long do you expect me to stay here? A couple of weeks? A month at the most?" The question comes out of my mouth without any control. I guess its crucial that I know if he intends to keep me here forever. _Please don't want me here forever._

"For however long it takes."

I lift my eyes, meeting his though the eye-holes of the balaclava. A surge of irritation blows through me. _Why can't he just spell it out completely for me already? What the hell does he expect from me?_

"For however long _what_ takes?"

He avoids my eyes again while parting his lips, running his tongue over them. "I can't say just yet."

"Why not?" I probe in frustration. "Why can't you just say already?"

"Because I can't. If I do then... it won't happen the way it needs to."

My God, he is driving me crazy. Why the cryptic words? Or is he doing it on purpose? He wants me to feel this way; Hopeless and frustrated, going out of my mind wondering what he is trying to say between the lines?

I can tell he is uncomfortable over my staring, because he turns on his side. "Today is Sunday," he bursts out unexpectedly. I think he is trying to change the subject. "I won't be here tomorrow to talk to you for over eight hours. I have to work."

He can still work, despite the scarring on his face? I was wondering if he was that badly scarred and disfigured, that it was the main reason why he was hesitant to show his face. They obviously can't be that bad or horrendous if he can still work and go out in public, showing his face to everyone. So why can't he show me?

"So you'll be gone for eight hours to work?"

"Yes."

 _Shit, eight hours._ I feel my heart rate pick up, my breathing becoming even shallower. "And what about me?" I ask, the fear breaking through in my voice. "What am I supposed to do for eight hours straight while you keep me locked in here? I'll need to go to the bathroom and... and I know I won't be able to hold off for that long?"

It may seem trivial to him, panicking over not being able to use the bathroom. But it means a lot to me. It would take away any dignity I have left if I can't even so much as use the toilet, that I would have to pee myself.

"Well, I was thinking of actually keeping the door unlocked while I'm gone." Just like that, his words take all my fears and stresses away. It's like the weight of a full-grown gorilla has been lifted off my shoulders. "There wouldn't be much point to keep you locked in here for eight full hours and, as you just said... you'll need to use the bathroom."

"You'd leave the door unlocked for me while you're working?" I ask slowly, wanting to be sure I've heard right. I don't want to get my hopes up.

"I would. I _will_."

"Aren't you... worried about me somehow escaping, though?"

Finally, he turns his head, meeting my gaze again. There's something there in his eyes. Something cruel and all-too knowing. "You won't escape and you can't," he says confidently. I think I hear a singing taunting tone in his voice. "As I said before, I have been... fantasizing about having you here with me ever since we first met. That's over two months of planning."

 _What? So he had planned to do this to me all along in kidnapping me? Holding me here against my will in this room? This was all... premeditated and thought out carefully._

"I used to sit in here once I got home from work. This _very_ room." His eyes dance around the room meaningfully. "I would even think about all the potential ways in which you would attempt to escape. There is really no point in keeping you locked solely in this room when the rest of the penthouse is just as safe."

I think I am actually starting to hate him as I look at him. There is an air of superiority that wasn't there before, a smugness. How could someone be so cruel as to intentionally rub it all in my face?

"I don't get visitors so there is no danger there of anyone ever noticing I have you here. If I want to see my family, I always go to them. No one could hear you scream or cry for help, because there's... just me here. It would _only_ be _me_."

I feel something crack and break within me at his words, finally. Something that was just about to break within me, but hadn't as yet. Along with the realization of just how alone I am, how helpless I am. He's done this to me. He's thought about it for _two whole months_ , planning everything so I could never break free.

"I have also taken the liberty of disconnecting all the phones in the house. We can't risk you calling anyone now, could we? I am not stupid enough to have any oversights, if that's what you are thinking? Also, you can only exit the penthouse by elevator where you need a key card. And _who_ has all the key cards to use it?"

" _Get out_ ," I seethe. " _Leave_ me alone!"

When he makes no move to leave and I see him just standing there, that something breaks within me, well and truly. I fling myself off the bed at him. Before I can stop myself or even think of no good reason not to, I raise my arm and my hand collides with the side of his face. I hit him as hard as I possibly can. I don't know whether the stupid balaclava cushions him, lessening the pain of my slap. But I hope not.

All I know, is that my slap is enough to knock his head down and to the side.

Realizing my mistake, I inch back away from him, crying loudly, waiting and expecting for him to retaliate unpleasantly. Only he doesn't. He simply stands there, breathing heavily, head down towards the ground, eyes clenched closed. Why isn't he lashing back? What? Is he some kind of masochist that gets off on being hit by me?

 _Can he even see how crazy he is? How crazy everything about this is at all?_

"I want to be alone and I _don't want_ to talk to you anymore," I shout in hysteria. "Why can't you _see_ that? Or are you _that_ delusional?"

I don't stand around and watch him when he does eventually leave. Instead, I throw myself down on the mattress, shoving my face into the pillows as I sob. _What did I do to deserve this? Am I such a bad person to him? What the hell does he expect from me?_

* * *

When I wake, I'm still in bed with the blankets over me, shrouded in darkness. I have no idea what time it is and I suppose I should turn on the light to check the clock on the wall, but I decide I can't be bothered. Shifting over onto my back, I listen carefully for him, looking around.

The door is still open and unlocked, but as far as I can tell, he isn't anywhere in the room with me. He finally got the message that I didn't care for talking with him, it seems. _Thank God._

I think I hear something, though. Music drifts from out in another room. Piano music. Is he listening to music? The music alone is enough to send me into a deep dark depression again over the hopelessness of my situation. It's a sad melody on a piano, similar to a funeral dirge.

Why would he want to listen to such depressing stuff? Or is that him? The music matches how he feels on the inside; Depressed and lonely?

It dawns onto me that I need to use the bathroom. Sliding out of the sheets, I rush towards the opened door, checking to make sure he isn't near before I get into the bathroom, closing the door on myself. After I go, I run water in the sink, cupping my hands underneath it to splash my face. Then I decide I feel thirsty, so I cup some more, slurping in as much tap water as I am able to.

I feel wide awake and alert right now. And hungry; I haven't eaten anything all day. He hasn't given me anything but orange juice and water.

Too depressed to sleep, I open the bathroom door, trying to be as quiet as possible. The haunting piano music attacks my ears again, poignant with sorrow, as I pad my way along the hallway, coming to a winding stairs. I think he is down there, somewhere. I start stepping down the cold stairs on tiptoes, holding my breath for fear he will discover me. In just my dress, its freezing but I need to know more on what the house I'm trapped in looks like.

Also, if I could find out where he put my bag from last night at the club. It has my cellphone in it and all my saved contacts. If I could somehow get it without him knowing, I could get Kate to alert the police if she hadn't already.

On the last step, that's when I see him. It isn't an actual CD he is playing with piano music. It's him. He sits at a piano, but its too dark to properly see him. I can't tell whether he is still wearing that balaclava or not, not when the entire house is dim and filled with shadows. But because he is there, the one person I don't want to have to deal with right now, I change direction, heading furthest away from him and the piano as possible.

At least the music drowns me out when my bare feet slap against the floor. There's another room and I sneak into it, a lamp on in the corner illuminating my surroundings. I think its his bedroom, considering there is a large untouched bed there. Maybe he hasn't slept yet? Maybe he can't? The fact that he isn't asleep pleasures me in what is probably a cruel way. At least I'm not alone in suffering right now. I hope he is that ill with guilt that he can't sleep, that its keeping him up. No matter where I look around in the room, I can't seem to see my bag anywhere.

As I step deeper into the room, looking around as my feet scuff against the carpet, that's when it hits me.

It takes all I have not to yelp when a short stabbing pain shoots through my right foot.

"Shit," I whimper out. "Oh, God."

I've tread on something, though I don't know what. Supporting myself upright with a shoulder against the wall to keep balance, I lift up my foot, inspecting it. Already, I'm bleeding a decent amount, but I can't tell whats caused it.

When I glance down at the floor again and into another open room that must be his bathroom, it occurs to me.

Glass.

The mirror in the bathroom is all smashed in, sharp shards littering everywhere. It must have been what I trod on, but why would he smash the mirror in? Why? I wonder. Because he hates his face that much? His reflection and the way he looks with the scar under his chin?

I'm so wrapped up in the aching pain passing through my foot that it takes me a second too late to realize the piano music has stopped.

And then, his voice right behind me.

"What _do you think_ you are doing in here, Anastasia?"

 **Hope this one was okay? Thanks for reading :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: First of all, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. Just a fan.**

 **Thank you so much again for being so kind, I loved your reviews! Hoping you like this one :) I will update my other story, Fate's Pull, in a couple of days. Sorry.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 6**

Before I know what's come over me, I slather the blood around on my foot with my fingers, hoping to make it look worse than it probably truly is before he manages to see me. I am sort of naively hoping that if it does look too gruesome, then he will have no choice but to release me and take me to a hospital.

If he was any decent, he _would_ take me to a hospital to treat my foot with no hesitation.

"I think I need to go to the hospital," I breathe, trying to sound in a really bad way. I have never been a particularly good actress, but I pray to God that it will work for me now. "I cut my foot on some glass. It's bleeding pretty profusely."

"Well, what were you doing in here in the first place?" It's like he is scolding me.

"I was looking for my bag," I admit, deciding to be honest. I can't think up a good enough excuse right now anyway. My emotions are everywhere. "The bag that I had at the club last night. Where did you put it?"

I brace myself before hopping around to face him. I am almost tingling with anticipation, wondering what I will see. Is he still wearing that stupid thing over his face? Will I finally at last get to see who my captor is? My hopes are dashed though when I turn my head to find him wearing that stupid balaclava again, his eyes flying downwards to where my bleeding foot is. Doesn't he ever take it off? Does he wear it in the shower even?

He isn't wearing the same clothes as before, at least. He's wearing a pair of light grey track pants and a blue, short-sleeved T-shirt that is fairly tight. Just by looking at him alone, I know he has to be fairly young and not much older than me. He isn't some old, chubby pervert obviously. He keeps himself in good shape.

I hear him give out a heavy sigh as he shakes his head slightly. "You shouldn't have come in here. Your bag isn't in here."

"Then where is it? Why can't I have it back?"

He ignores me. "Sit on the bed," he murmurs, lifting one hand, pointing. "I have a first aid kit in the kitchen. I'll go get it."

 _No, you need to take me to the hospital right now!_

He's not falling for it. Why can't he just believe me and take me to the hospital? "There's a piece of glass stuck in my foot, wedged in pretty deep," I say, though even to my own ears I don't sound all that convincing. "Plus, I'm starting to feel... lightheaded." I make myself breathe loudly and shallowly. "I haven't eaten or drank anything all day. I think the blood loss is getting to me. I need hospital treatment."

Just when I am starting to think its working, he sighs again. "Sit on the bed." He steps closer towards me, vaguely threatening. "I won't ask you again."

Resigning to defeat, I hop towards the bed ungraciously, making sure I don't tread on my injured foot. As soon as my backside hits the mattress, he leaves to find the first aid kit. I let out a growl of frustration, hitting my thighs with two clenched fists. God, why can't he just believe me? Why can't he just pity me and take me to the hospital?

The fact that he didn't take the bait, that he didn't offer to take me to the hospital, it leaves me feeling even more depressed and aching with despair. He'll never let me go, obviously. Even if I managed to slice a finger off, he probably wouldn't take me to the hospital either way. No matter how much I pleaded or how much in agony I was.

I think I _really am_ starting to hate him. Seeing as he is keeping me here like this, I think its perfectly understandable.

I suppose the only way I can think of to ever escape and be free is to give him what he wants. Let him "get to know me". I don't even think I fully understand what that means.

If he wants to be friends with me, it would only be like play pretend. I would only be pretending because, who can possibly want to be friends with the person that is doing this to them? It's hard to not want to let him "get to know me" or for me with him when he is the one taking away my freedom, fresh air, sunlight, and so many other things.

The crunching of glass with his shoes alerts me to his return. I watch him grudgingly as he pulls an armchair from in the corner of the room closer to where I am sitting on the bed, something he does so effortlessly it makes it hauntingly apparent to me yet again that he is so much stronger physically than I am, the muscles in his light forearm flexing.

At least he knew to wear shoes. It's not my fault this happened though. He has taken my belongings from last night, doing heaven knows what with them; My shoes and my bag, with my wallet and, most importantly, my cellphone. _What need could he have for them anyway?_

I don't want him touching me at all. But I'm not going to get that wish, not when he takes my cut foot in his hands, placing it in the middle of his lap. It's hard not to wriggle about or not follow through on the very satisfying urge to kick him away.

"It's not so deep," he says after a long moment of inspecting my foot. "You wouldn't need to go to the hospital for this."

"I feel faint, though," I say, trying again. "I bet its from the blood loss. I need a hospital. If you could just take me-"

"-No, _no_ hospitals," he speaks over me through gritted teeth, meeting my gaze. I see light brown, wiry eyebrows above his eyes through the eye-holes as he squints at me in frustration. "I know what you are doing, Anastasia, and it isn't going to work."

At that, I try to fling my foot free but he catches it with his hand, pressing down with his fingers over my ankle to keep it still. It isn't painful, like he is trying to hurt me and make a show of it. It's just a firm, tight clasp.

"Stop moving otherwise I won't be able to fix it."

"Good then. I don't want _you_ to fix it, I want _a hospital_ to fix it."

"Well, tough. This is what you are going to get." The words are low and soft, but definitely menacing. It's enough to make my blood run ice-cold. "If you keep insisting on moving about, then I have no qualms about tying your arms to the headboard so you'll keep still long enough. Is that what you want?" He blinks at me slowly as he waits for an answer. _Oh my God, he's being serious about that!_

"No, I don't want that," I whisper sullenly after a second. "Of course I don't."

"Then keep still."

His hand is still clasping tight over my ankle when he reaches down to get something. I don't know what that something is, until I see its a set of tweezers.

"I need to remove the shard of glass first," he explains, quite calmly. "It's probably going to be the only painful thing about this. Make sure you keep absolutely still."

I hate myself for getting into this situation, but I guess he right. There is no other choice but to remove the glass first. I shut my eyes tight, feeling nauseous. It would have helped if I had eaten something today. On an empty stomach, I just feel flat-out queasy. I guess that isn't anything new though; I hate the sight of blood. I especially hate pain, and that's what I get, when I feel him tugging at something with the tweezers. I don't bother asking to check and see whether he got the piece of glass out successfully though; I really don't want to know.

When I find enough courage to peek at what he is doing, he has a bottle of a yellow liquid in his hands. As he uncaps it, he pours a decent amount into a tissue and then I'm off hissing in pain again at the stinging and trying not to move when he dabs the tissue into my skin gently. I think its antibacterial stuff, but I can't be too sure.

"All done now," he says distractedly while throwing the tissue in the bin near his bed.

He hardly sounds grossed out by the blood or my cut foot at all; It's as though he is completely unfazed by it all, which is weird. Maybe he's just sadistic and likes seeing blood and people injured?

"Now we just need to bandage it up." He's talking to himself, so I don't bother saying anything. I focus on keeping as still as possible while trying to breathe slow and steady as he undoes the packaging of the bandage. "How are we doing over there?" he asks with concern. I don't actually realize he is talking to me until I glance up at him, finding his gray eyes watching me through the holes of his balaclava speculatively. "I think this is the quietest you have been since waking here?"

"Thank you," I force myself to say weakly. "It feels a lot... better now without the glass in it."

"Your welcome." He nods once, something disturbing glistening there in his eyes. "See." I feel all the tension leave my body once he averts my eyes, unrolling the bandage out. He clears his throat as he holds my foot in the air about an inch by my toes, then he starts applying the bandage, wrapping it around and around. "This is what I can do for you, Anastasia. It's all I have ever wanted."

I have no idea what he is talking about. I part my lips, hesitating to ask the question. I'm petrified already that he will say something sick, something that illustrates just how much of a psycho he really is. "What do you mean, about this being what you can do for me?"

"Taking care of you." He lifts his head, meeting my eyes again, something weirdly intense there. The corners of his mouth lifts, like he is smiling at me. "I can take good care of you. I can be... good to you."

 _He can take good care of me? Who says I want to be taken care of?_

"I don't need to be taken care of by anybody," I mutter. "I don't want anyone to take care of me."

"We all need to be taken care of, in one way or another. I think its in our basic human nature; We all want to be cherished and taken care of, even if we are... too _stubborn_ to admit it to ourselves."

I really wish he would quit it with the confusing remarks already. It's the most frustrating thing in the world; the fact that I can't work him out. It would be easier to find out what he wants if he could just be straightforward with me. I could escape from this hell quicker.

Maybe I should try to play along, for the time being? I just don't know where to start though. That fear inside of me refuses to leave, and I still feel on-edge and in a constant state of distress. I feel I am walking on egg-shells right now, with wanting to not say something wrong in case he refuses to let me leave for good. I have to play this right. But how?

"I heard you playing the piano before?" I begin, changing the subject. "You are... very good." What do they say? _Flattery gets you everywhere. "_ Very... professional. Have you been playing it for long?" I try to sound interested and open with him, yet my voice fails me yet again. It's too shaky, too high with nerves.

"You could say that. I've been playing since I was around seven years old, I think."

"Oh, wow." I gasp loudly, hoping to seem shocked. "Seven years is an _extremely young age_. You were only a... a baby. So its something you enjoy then? Playing the piano?"

"I do enjoy it, yes."

My mind goes blank when it dawns onto me just what his finger is doing to me as he holds my ankle in his lap. His forefinger runs back and forth along my big toe, like he is petting me, caressing me. It makes my stomach churn and I feel like I want to gag. I don't think he realizes he is doing it, though. He's too preoccupied with staring into my eyes while we talk. _What the hell is all that about?_

Now what to talk about? I search my brain frantically. I can hardly think properly while feeling him stroking me repeatedly with his finger. Why is he touching me like he assumes I'll enjoy it? Or maybe its _him_ that's enjoying touching me?

Instantly, I remember his reaction when he had touched my cheek with his hand. He had closed his eyes, like he was in ecstasy. Is that why he is doing this? He... has some kind of infatuation with me? God, even thinking about it makes me feel sick. Surely that can't be it, right? I mean, what's so special about me?

 _Think, though_. Say something like he interests you that much...

"Why... why is the mirror smashed in your bathroom?" It's the only thing I am able to come up with.

Finally, he stops stroking me with his finger. He glances down, grasping my foot in both hands before setting it back down on the floor. I think I've gone and done it then. I've failed in seeming like I want to get to know him.

"Did you do that yourself? You... smashed it?" It's a stupid question, I know. _Of course_ he did that himself.

When he lifts a hand to run his fingers over his lips, I see the graze on his knuckles. The dried blood. The guy obviously isn't a fan of his own reflection. No surprises there, though... seeing as he won't even let me see his face because he assumes he will repulse me. I can't help the unwanted pang of pity that goes through me at the sight of his knuckles though. I don't want to feel that way towards him, but it just can't be helped.

"Your knuckles were bleeding?" I whisper sadly. "You smashed the mirror in with your hand?"

"What?" He turns his hand, glancing down at his battered knuckles himself. Then he shrugs, uncaring. "It's nothing."

"Why?" I shouldn't be asking, because a part of me knows its a touchy subject for him, yet I can't stop myself. " _Why_ would you do that? Do you hate your reflection that badly?"

Without warning, he stands from the chair, shoving it in the corner roughly. He stands with his back to me a long moment, and I know for sure then that I have gone and done it. I've ruined it _already_.

"You should go to bed. It's late." He's dismissing me. "Let me know if your foot still hurts or if it bleeds through the bandage and I will replace it with a clean one."

I don't want to get him angry again. I've obviously put my foot in it again. Sleeping is the last thing I know I will be able to do, especially when I am so hungry, but I do it, getting to my feet and carefully treading on my right foot so as not to aggravate it and make it hurt again.

I don't look his way as I start limping upstairs to the room. I listen carefully with my ears to make sure he doesn't follow me up. As far as I can tell, he doesn't.

When I crawl back onto the mattress under the sheets, I shove the side of my face into the pillows, trying to urge sleep to come to me. It's uncomfortable because I have to restrict movement on my injured foot, but hopefully it heals rather quickly. My stomach hurts though; It keeps reminding me how hungry I am, that I need to eat something soon, but I try to block it out.

I've barely just started to doze off when I hear the alarming sound of footsteps against the floorboards. My eyes pop open and I sit up, immediately on alert. He's come into the room. Now what the hell is he going to do to me?

Holding the blankets to my chest as tightly as possible, I start shaking uncontrollably when I feel the mattress lurch and depress as he sits beside me. I can hardly see him because the room is that dark; But if I look hard enough, I think I can see the outline of him. His body, and the shape of his head. I can hear him breathing deeply.

"What?" I get out anxiously. "What is it?"

He moves towards me and I know he's going to do it then. He's going to rape me or force himself onto me or do _something_.

I feel his fingers curl over my wrists and he yanks, but I refuse to let go of the blanket. I won't.

"Piss off." It tears out of my mouth angrily before I can help it. "Don't do anything to me! I don't want it!"

The tears escape my eyes and I start sobbing as he manages to loosen my hold on the blankets. And then, doing the very last thing I expect of him, he ducks his head into my protesting hands, and I feel it.

He makes me touch his face, starting from his hair, holding my wrists and guiding my hands, running my fingers and palms over warm skin and prickly stubble from an unshaven chin. My blurry eyes widen in fear when he guides my trembling hands down the curve of his chin and towards his hot throat. I feel it; the bumpy ridge of the scar I saw beneath his chin, the rough texture.

"Can you feel it?" He pants roughly, his voice strained. He guides my hands over his face again, making me touch him for a second time. "Feel how disgusting I am, just like _she_ always said I was. I should have aborted you while I had the chance... you're unclean... filthy..." The words come out fast and rapid, a tinge of hatred there. "This is what happens when you refuse to be quiet... Go stand under there and think about what you've done, you little shit..."

As his breathing dies down, he releases my hands, shifting away from me on the bed. I think I see him put his head in his hands, but its really too dark. What the hell just happened? I stare into the darkness; stunned, frozen and too frightened to make a single movement in case he does something else. Someone did this to him, I realize. The scar. Someone hurt him when he was a child.

 **Hope this one was all right? Thank you for reading. I would love to know your thoughts and feelings on this. If there is something I am doing wrong or a particular direction you wish to happen in the story, let me know. I understand this is hugely out of character as well; Christian kidnapping Ana, etc. It is just something I have wanted to write about, so if you could possibly look past that LOL. I haven't really done this before so I am not too sure half the time. See you next update in a few days hopefully.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. Just a fan messing around with the characters. :)**

 **Thank you all so much, I am so flattered. Hoping this one isn't a disappointment. More will be revealed next chapter. Sorry if its slow building.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

When I wake next morning, I stretch out, feeling the stiffness cramping up my bandaged foot. I turn on my back carefully, blinking up at the ceiling.

It's not a dream, unfortunately. Everything about yesterday had truly happened. I'm still here, in this room that is now to be my prison cell. It wasn't some horrible nightmare, but reality.

I sit up, glancing at the door that is still left ajar. He didn't lock it like he had said he wouldn't. At least I won't be stuck cooped up in here all day, unable to use the bathroom or stretch my legs properly in walking around.

I can't hear anything moving about in the house. He must have went to work, like he also said. The fact that I can't hear him lurking around, that there is literally no flurry of movement or activity anywhere in my prison, it expands my heart in relief.

I won't have to worry about those eyes of his following me around, for eight hours at least. I can do my own thing; Maybe even check out the house to find out if there is anything he might have missed that could give me some vital clues into his motives for doing this to me.

I am alone and free to do whatever I want- to an extent. He's gone. He's isn't anywhere in the house. And I have never felt this relieved in my entire life than I do in this moment of time.

Pulling the sheets back and climbing out of them, I check the time on the clock hanging on the wall as I stand and stretch. It's just after nine o'clock in the morning.

As I get into the bathroom, using the toilet and washing my hands, I stare down at the large claw-footed spa-bath indecisively. It looks very tempting, and I do need to have a good wash, seeing it has been a full day since I've had one. But as for now, I don't want to waste any time. I have some major exploring to do; Bathing can wait for now.

Treading down the stairs proves to be most challenging of all; My foot can hardly withstand any of my weight resting on it, so I have to resort to hopping while gripping the railing for dear life.

In the early daytime, houses look so much different than how they were at night in the dark. I can see better now. I can see everything; From the glistening tiles that make up the floor, to the kitchen that seems so huge for one man living here all by himself.

Hardly anything looks as though its even been touched or properly used; Limping into the kitchen, the counter is clean with no crumb or mark in sight. There's a hanger with kitchen utensils and a knife set. A range of different coffees and teas neatly together, arranged in order alphabetically.

 _Doesn't my captor ever eat and use his kitchen? Or is he that... anal about cleanliness?_

Paintings are on the walls that I have never seen before. Along an open way is what seems to be a living room area, with a U-shaped ash-grey couch and a massive flat screen TV. But more importantly, beyond that TV, is the doorway that opens up to the balcony.

Because I crave to get the chance to feel the sunlight and fresh air against my skin, its the first place I get to. I yank the sliding door open. Instance I do, the breeze hits my skin in a heavenly way. Hopping out until I reach the end of the balcony, I rest against it, gripping the iron railings with both hands. The view is absolutely beautiful. It's definitely Seattle, because I recognize some of the buildings.

Glancing down past the railings, I get instant vertigo.

Usually I am not afraid of heights, but on an empty stomach, it makes me feel ill. I'm so high up that if I ever did manage to fling myself off the balcony as a way to escape, it would be suicide. I see little cars driving on the road far, far down. The rush of wind blasting my hair around and in my eyes.

I close my eyes, tilting my head back towards the sun.

It's amazing how much you take things for granted. I have never thought about how important it would be to breathe in fresh air, to be able to feel the warmth of the sunlight on your skin. When its denied to you to a certain extent, its so easy to realize all the simple things you have taken for granted.

 _Like phones. The internet..._

 _Friends..._

 _Family..._

 _Sunlight..._

 _Air._

I'm so wrapped up in being able to stand in the fresh air with the sunlight streaming down on me, that I almost miss the two workers wiping the windows on the high-rise building across from me.

 _Holy shit. What glorious luck is this?_

There's about a ten meter distance between the building I am in and where they are, elevated on some kind of rope contraption. I don't know if they will be able to hear me or not, but its worth a try.

Cupping my hands over my mouth, I start to scream, giving it all I've got. "Hey, over here! I need you to help me!"

When I think I spot one of the men's white hardhats turn in my direction, I start waving my arms around, my heart pounding in all my desperation.

"Please, help me!" I holler as loud as I can. "My name is Ana Steele, and some guy is keeping me in here!"

Nothing happens. He just stares at me, this lone figure in a two-day-old party dress, high up on the top floor of a massive building.

"You need to call the police and tell them! Anastasia Steele is trapped up here! Please!"

When it becomes obvious that my cries for help are falling to deaf ears, I start sobbing uncontrollably. Ever since waking up here, I've been crying more than I have in a single month. I don't know why I keep crying, but I guess its the stress and complete helplessness of my situation getting to me.

 _I will get through this though,_ I tell myself, trying to cheer myself up. So far it hasn't been as bad as it could have been. _You are still alive and he hasn't beaten you or raped you- yet. Eventually, someday soon, someone will see me in here. Someday soon, someone will hear my cries for help. Who knows? Hopefully Kate has already notified me as missing?_

Head hanging low with defeat, I force myself to head back inside. I can't let my emotions take over and let myself wallow in defeat. I have to keep hopeful and optimist as much as possible.

My stomach makes a loud gurgling noise so I try to distract myself on finding something to eat. It's been- what? A full twenty four hours or more since I have last eaten anything substantial?

I head back into the kitchen, stopping stock still as my eyes land on a large, dark wood dining table. _How could I have missed this?_

He bothered to make me breakfast.

Set out on the table, are buttered pieces of wholemeal toast on a plate. Next to it, a little selection of what looks like marmalade and peanut butter to spread on the toast with.

Since I think the possibility of him slipping some illicit substance to make me drowsy into the marmalade or peanut butter is highly unlikely, I take my chances when my stomach makes a horrible growling noise again.

It's really lucky he isn't here to watch me eat. Something tells me _I_ would be the one repulsing _him_ , that he wouldn't like what he sees. I spread a thick coating of marmalade on the toast, then literally cram it all into my mouth. I can't even bring myself to care that I'm spilling crumbs all over his immaculate, shiny floor. It seems like fair payback though, in all things considered.

It feels so good to eat and have something to fill my stomach with after going without for a full day yesterday. I don't care if I'm being impolite in eating messy; There is no one here in the house to see me to get offended anyway.

Once I've managed to demolish every last bit of the toast, I drop the plate into the sink, not even bothering to wash it up like I would have if I was still in the apartment I shared with Kate right now. Dusting the crumbs off my fingers, I make a start on investigating again, starting with his bedroom.

This time, I'm cautious about stepping on the floor in case there are still shards of glass lying around. But as I inspect the carpet carefully, I'm sure he cleaned it up after last night. I can't spot any shining pieces of glass anywhere.

What I would like to do, right now above all else now that I'm no longer hungry, is to find the bag I took to the club with all my belongings in it. I know he said that the bag wasn't in his room, but it's still worth looking around to see if there are any clues into who this guy is.

I start with the drawers near his bed, pulling them out to see whats inside them. So far, there are just ties neatly folded up and socks. _Surely this guy has something he has hidden away in here?_

Hopping into the bathroom, I switch on the light, looking around. The mirror is still broken but he's cleaned all the glass up. There's an electric toothbrush in a porcelain holder with toothpaste- nothing groundbreaking there. In the other drawer, a razor. Men's aftershave and moisturizer, an expensive brand. Nothing revealing who he is. Not anything anywhere that came out of my bag to be seen in sight.

 _Where else could he hide things?_

Biting my lip, I glance around again. Then I see the door that opens up into another room at the end of the bathroom. I feel like I'm in a weird maze as I try the door, finding it unlocked. As I pull it open cautiously, poking my head through, it turns out to be just another room. A walk-in wardrobe, in fact.

I can't help wondering if this guy has obsessive compulsive disorder. Even his shirts and suits are ordered in way of color. His shoes on the shoe rack are no different. Evening dressy shoes, top shelf. Casual shoes, bottom shelf. _Can a male really be that pedantic?_

This time, the floor length mirror in the walk-in wardrobe isn't smashed. Instead, what looks like paper is stuck over the top of it where the reflection of his face would no doubt be seen if he stands there, with tape.

I can't help but feel sorry for him, really. He must really hate his reflection that badly, which is tragic. I also know, from him coming into the room and sitting on the bed last night, forcing me to touch his face while he uttered those words filled of hatred, that he had a rough childhood.

Someone obviously abused him at a young age, an adult he had trusted. Obviously his mother, seeing as he said how they told him that they should have aborted him while they had the chance. If so, then what kind of mother would say those type of things to their child, destroying their self-esteem and making them feel worthless in the process? It's emotional abuse, and no child deserves that, no matter how unruly they are. Did she give him the scar that he is so paranoid about as well, the one under his chin?

 _Poor thing._

It seems so ironic, pitying him when he is keeping me locked in his place like this. I shouldn't be feeling sorry for him at all. But child abuse from your very own biological mother... If he has been through that, then I think that is a good enough reason to pity him just the slightest bit despite his inexcusable actions in what he is doing to me. I'm only human and I can't help feeling sympathy towards someone else due to certain plights in their life.

But maybe he looks like Frankenstein or the Elephant Man?

When he let me touch his face last night, going by what I felt, he didn't feel all that bad, though? It was just the scar beneath his chin that I felt, that's it. Also, he felt like he could use a good shave. Maybe he's lying about it? Maybe his face isn't that horrendous as he wants me to think it is; He just mainly doesn't want to reveal his identity too soon? He wants us to "get to know each other" first?

Who knows?

I could be wondering all day and not get anywhere...

Giving up on my search for my bag, I head back out of his room. The large house suddenly seems too quiet, in an eerie way. In order to break it, I decide to turn on the TV. I find the remote, and switch it on. The early morning news is on. They talk about terrorism, and all these other horrible and sad things that are currently going on in the world.

I see it on the bottom of the screen on the news ticker as it scrolls through. My heart constricts as I stare at the screen, waiting for it to return again. Once it does, its like its a message from God himself.

 _"WU graduate student still missing after 24 hours. Search still underway."_

I have no idea if its me they are referring to, but I can only hope that they are. If so, what a relief!

Kate must have notified the police. Either her, or my parents. They must realize I am missing and that its suspicious, something dangerous.

Just like that, all the hopeless feelings inside of me seem to recede. There is still hope, after all. They've cottoned-on to me being missing and they are searching for me.

They know I've been taken due to suspicious circumstances.

And _hopefully_ , it won't take them too long to find me.

In a much happier and less dismal mood over what I saw on the news, I decide to have a bath to clean myself up after nearly two days of not having a wash. There is this new burst of hope that was lacking within me before, swelling inside of me permanently like a balloon. Eventually, they will have to connect all the dots, which will inevitably lead them back here to where I am.

Here, in this house.

It's hard not to feel as though I am bursting at the seams with relief.

Once I feel clean and thoroughly washed, I let out the plug while wrapping one of the white towels tightly over my naked body, letting myself out and back into the room. That ever-present hope inside me diminishes a little, when I open the drawers and see that he has brought me clothes, that Taylor guy like he said. I pick out a pair of jeans, a frilly violet shirt, and a cardigan to throw over it.

I'm horrified when I look at all the tags to see they are exactly the right size and fit for me, straight down to the bras and underwear. How disturbing that this guy knows my bra cup size- something so intimate in my eyes- and yet, I know absolutely nothing about him. _Hardly anything, aside from knowing he plays the piano._

But I push that aside deliberately. Nothing else should matter anymore.

Sooner or later, I will be out of here. I'll be free. Someday soon, the police will be getting ready to barge through the elevator, maybe even arrest this guy for what he has done to me.

It gives me strength to carry on, that thought. Who knew watching the television could inspire you and give you the courage you needed to carry on?

I shake my head, realizing I am getting too overexcited. I shouldn't get my hopes up. It could be awhile until they finally find me trapped in here. In the meantime, I try to think of something else to do; Something that will distract me.

Getting changed is one distraction.

With the camera in the bedroom, I don't want to get dressed in there. I go into the bathroom instead for some privacy, just in case he does intend to watch me through that creepy thing.

It's an effort to slip my right leg through the jeans, because I don't want to hurt my injured foot anymore than it already is. It takes some time to carefully get my foot through the end of the jeans without moving it too much, but I get there. Pulling on the cardigan, I feel so much better in clean clothes. I fold the towel back up, hanging it how it was in the bathroom on the rack. Then I collect my dress and my old underwear, unsure of where to put them for the laundry. So I just leave them in the room where I slept last night.

Hair dripping wet and uncombed, I head back down the stairs, taking it one careful step at a time. _What can I do? What should I do in a massive house by myself for a few hours other than daydreaming of the police finding me and carrying me away out of this hell?_

Dinner. I decide to make dinner, though I'm not totally sure why.

At the apartment with Kate, I was always the one that did cooking duties. Cooking has always been something I enjoyed. Even when I was a kid, I would cook for my Mom and my stepfather when I lived with them. Hopefully it will get me in this guy's good books if I do cook him dinner? Who knows? It may even earn me enough brownie points that he will feel touched enough to let me go, ending my stay here. Probably not, but cooking and keeping busy is better than just sitting around.

I open the stainless steel refrigerator, checking on what ingredients he has inside. Vegetables. Already cooked chicken on a plate, though I don't know how long its been in the fridge for and whether its still good. When I pull it out, sniffing it, it doesn't smell off to me. It should be safe to use.

There are peas in the freezer so I decide on making a chicken stir-fry.

I find a pan under the counter but the stove top, I find, is confusing. It's a recent model, by the looks of it. There are no simple knobs to switch it on, no anything. When I swipe my hand across it, that's when it lights up, startling me.

After a bit of trial and error, I finally get it working. I put the pan on the stove, heating up some butter while I slice up the chicken, carrots, and other ingredients to throw in. As I start tipping in peas into the pan, my mind drifts off into a terrible direction. I wonder if he had something here that I could fatally poison him with; Slip a little something in to his dinner.

I smack myself on the head mentally at that murderous notion, shaking my head.

There would be no point in poisoning him, because I will be out very soon once the police find me. They already know I am missing and it has even been broadcast on the news for all of America to see. I just need to be patient and, in the meantime, focus on making him happy by playing his game and giving him what he wants.

Once the stir-fry is cooked, I dish it out, taking both plates over to the table. Then I set out knives and forks, humming to myself. That strange inner sense of peace disappears when I step back, looking at my work.

Why am I doing this, in making him dinner? Since when did I turn into a Stepford Wife? Knowing him, this is probably what he wants; For me to slave away, making him a nice meal. Is it too obvious? Obvious that I am trying to suck up to him?

Just as I consider scraping his plate of food into the trash, I hear a noise. I think its him. He's home now from work. I have no idea what time it is, but it has gotten fairly dark outside. _Shit, its now or never. Do I turf the food out or not?_

He makes my mind up for me when he appears almost out of nowhere in a pressed, light grey business suit. I don't know what I was expecting, but when I see the black ski-mask concealing his face from me yet again, my heart sinks in disappointment. Not being able to see his face, its irritating. He'll have to show me it eventually, won't he?

My body becomes significantly different as he stares at me with his piercing gray eyes through the holes. It's like a drastic contrast from how I felt before, alone; Before, I felt almost carefree and at ease in being by myself. Less like a person locked into this huge house somehow. Now, already my hands are shaking for no particular reason; my stomach in a tight and heavy, anxious coil. I'm back to being a defenseless prisoner again, all due to him.

I fold my hands together, intertwining my fingers in the hope of ceasing their trembling as I watch his eyes dart around the room. First, he takes in the pan on the sink. Then, the plates and the cutlery all laid out on the table with widened eyes. Thanks to that stupid balaclava, I can't tell what he is thinking or feeling at all.

Maybe he's wearing that thing on purpose to remind me? To always keep it in the forefront of my mind that he is my captor, that he has control on whether I live or die, or am released or stuck here forever?

"I... I made dinner," I croak out, hating how vulnerable I sound. I clear my throat quietly, trying to sound stronger. _Get it together already, Steele._ "I thought it was the least that I could do, seeing as I was here all day."

He blinks at me slowly, something there in his eyes. I think he's pleased, but it really is impossible to tell. "Would you like a drink?"

 _Would I like a drink? What?_

"After today, I'm going to have one. White wine?"

 _Yes, because nothing would please me more than to wine and dine with my kidnapper who won't let me leave... Is he for real?_ But then I remind myself of what I was planning to do, in going along in letting him get to know me.

"Okay then? If you are, then I suppose I'll have some wine too."

I watch him as he shrugs out of his jacket, his eyes still scrutinizing me. Maybe he's wondering what brought this on, in me making him dinner like a dutiful prisoner? "You had a bath," he says, freaking me out. _How the hell did he know? Unless he has a camera in the bathroom, too?_ When I looked every crevice of the bathroom, I couldn't see one though.

My hairs still damp. Probably why he noticed. "Yes, I did," I breathe.

"Thought so." He nods, draping his jacket around a stool. "I thought I recognized it."

 _Recognized it?_ "Recognized what?"

He starts stepping towards me. Though I think I know he doesn't really intend to cause me harm- or well, he has tried to make that clear on me- I can't help stepping back as he stands in front of me, his eyes peering deeply into mine. The corner of his mouth is lifted, like he is finding amusement or enjoyment out of something.

"Recognized what?" I repeat again, unnerved by his closeness.

He makes me feel like prey. He's the hunter, I'm the hunted.

I see him close his eyes for a brief moment, before he reopens them. His eyes roam down my face before he meets my gaze again, something disturbingly gentle in them. "The scent of the body wash, Anastasia. I can smell it on your skin. Not once did I think I would ever actually be envious of body wash before."

 _What?_

I swallow dryly at his words, trying to work out the meaning in them. Then I feel paralyzed from my head downwards, when he lifts up his hand from where it is at his side.

He traces his hand down from my shoulder to my forearm. Even although the cardigan covers my arm from him truly touching my skin, I can still feel the warmth of him through the light fabric. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but it feels like its menacing, the way he is touching me.

"Thank you."

"For what?" I force myself to look up at his eyes again despite him standing barely inches away.

"For making dinner. It was..." He pauses, contemplating on how to word it, I think. "Unexpected. It was unexpected of you."

He lifts his hand again. This time, he puts a finger under my chin, stroking me with his thumb. I close my eyes tight, my heart feeling as though it has stopped from the dread trickling through my pores.

 _Shit, I think he is actually warming himself up to kiss me!_

If he does follow through on the attempt to kiss me, I am not so sure I would be able to handle it. I need to distract him.

I make myself speak, hoping he looks beyond the unsteady quaking of my voice. "You said something about wine, remember?"

I don't reopen my eyes until I feel him take his hand away and hear him move. When I muster up enough courage to glance in his direction, fortunately for me, his back is facing me as he rummages through the refrigerator.

 _Heaven help me._

 ** _HOPE THIS WAS OKAY? I'm sorry if it was a disappointing chapter. Next chapter will be more eventful and a few certain things will be revealed._**


	8. Christian POV

_**Firstly, thank you all so much for your kind reviews and the alerts I have received. I am so shocked and flattered. I thought I would try for a Christian POV. I don't know if I have succeeded or if its terrible, so please be gentle on me. At least it reveals some things though, such as his motivations into why hopefully. :)**_

 ** _WARNING: This contains kidnap/horror scene._**

* * *

 _ **CHAPTER 8**_

 _ **CHRISTIAN POV:**_

For as long as I can remember, I have always known I was different.

It's in the little things: The way people stare at you in a certain way. They way others purposefully avoid meeting your eyes like you're this hideous, gross specimen that they can't wait to be away from. You can sense people judging you just with their eyes alone. You can tell what they are thinking about you, and it is never anything good.

It's something I have gotten my entire life. Strangers staring, thinking and making their shallow thoughts and judgement. It wasn't so bad when I was a kid, though. When I was around ten or twelve, in the later stages of childhood, I didn't notice as much. Maybe I was just ignorant, wrongfully assuming I was like everyone else?

Then my foster parents decided they wanted to do a home video on Christmas, recording my brother Elliot, me, and my little sister Mia as we unwrapped our presents together. When we played that tape back years later, when I was around fourteen, it dawned onto me, while watching myself, just how different I truly was.

My face wasn't the same as Elliot's or Mia's. They didn't have what I had.

Just like that, everything changed. My feelings about myself, my beliefs. My confidence in myself.

I didn't look the same as Mia and Elliot. We were all adopted and came from different parents, sure, but I didn't look the same as they did. I realized then, ever since watching myself on that video tape, that I had had a distorted image of myself, straight from the very beginning. I thought I was normal like everybody else but I wasn't.

The mirrors had lied to me. My reflection in the mirror that I saw when I brushed my teeth, getting ready for school, just wasn't true. The reflection in the mirror didn't truly match what was really shown on the outside to everyone else when they looked at me.

Fortunately, I know better now.

Twenty seven years of living has made me determined to rise above it all and make a good name for myself. I am now co-founder of a successful billion dollar company. I have a swollen wallet filled with cash, and an overflowing bank account of millions that I have earned over the years by hard work and sheer determination alone; Something others can only just dream of having.

Others dream of being rich and being able to quit their jobs, retiring in a penthouse and living in luxery for the rest of their existences until they die. Others buy lottery tickets or gamble compulsively with the misapprehension that they could win and get a bucket-load.

But not me; I don't need to dream about that, because I have made it my reality. I have won in the financial stakes.

Finally, I have bet everyone at something, if I can't look the same as them: I don't go to sleep of a night stressing about how I am going to afford to pay the bills or if I can afford to buy a certain thing that may leave me short of putting food on the table to feed my family.

But sadly, money can only do so much.

In the past year, I have noticed I have been feeling... lower than usual. Motivation has become hard to come by and half the time, I do not feel up to leaving the penthouse and showing my face in public.

Money doesn't really make any difference in how people see you. I know certain people like to preach that social status and what your net worth is makes all the difference into how people view you. The truth is, how you look is everything. If you don't fit that mold in how you look in society like I know I don't, nothing can change that.

It doesn't change their views or automatically stop them criticizing like I know they no doubt are. A designer brand suit and shoes doesn't stop people staring at you like you do not belong anywhere near them. It doesn't stop them treating you like you are a bearer of some infectious disease. Some stare while others know how hurtful it is and turn a blind eye.

When people compliment me, my first go-to response is to doubt their comment or to view that person with more distrust. "You look handsome today, Mr. Grey," one of my assistants has a habit of telling me. But I know the truth; She is either just saying that to kiss my ass or she is being condescending.

I have never had a girlfriend before. I have never had anyone love me or want to be in a relationship with me. In high school and college, no girl went near me, except from my little sister Mia. I didn't have many friends, and I suppose that was the driving force that made me want to succeed in life, as far as a career and financial wealth goes.

At least I have my parents, Grace and Carrick. They adopted me after a short stint in a foster home that went badly. I think Grace is the only woman who can see past all my flaws, and I know she truly loves me for who I am, despite how I look on the outside. I put that down to her being accustomed to dealing with children with the certain troubled life that I had at a young age.

I think Carrick, Grace, Mia, and Elliot are the only ones that don't look at me in the wrong way. I know they can actually look past my aesthetic flaws, while others cannot. Most people nowadays, I know to be are nothing more than shallow and superficial, judgmental shits. I try not to let them get to me, but on some days, it is increasingly hard.

But for the past year, I feel as though I have been stuck in a rut, knee-deep and suffocating in boredom and monotony routine. I work, I go home. I force myself to make myself something to eat despite knowing I am unworthy of something as basic and necessary as the pleasures and gratification of food.

I work out, exercising of an evening for two hours at the most on a good day; doing stomach crunches and running on the treadmill. Doing push-ups and weights. I can change my body to a certain extent, but I cannot change the way I look, no matter how hard I try. I can't change the way people perceive me, but working out and keeping agile makes me feel better. Then once I'm exhausted from that, I shower and go to bed if I can sleep. Then I wake up, go to work. Rinse and repeat. A dull, mind-numbing vicious cycle that never seems to change, unless I get unexpected invites out with Elliot or Grace.

Sometimes it just gets so fucking lonely that I can hardly stand it.

I want to let someone in, and I crave finding love so bad I sometimes ache. Not so much the love aspect, like fairy-tale shit, as it seems so cliche. But to let someone in, to break down those walls and share myself with another person. Share every part of me. See me for me, my personality, who I am, and not the flawed and grotesque skin that covers me.

To know, for reassurances sake, that no matter how people look at me or judge me, I am still capable of finding a woman who accepts me in totality.

A woman who can look past the skin, and let me show myself to her while she shows whats beneath the skin of her in return.

Make her laugh, make her smile. Feel her touching me and not recoiling or looking at me in a certain way. Not be patronizing with her compliments, and actually mean them.

Skin is just what covers what is truly important inside: The mind, the personality. Appearance makes up forty percent of who you are. Personality and what's beneath the skin means so much more. Or maybe that too is just a stupid cliche?

But after twenty seven years of it never happening, I know I am starting to lose all hope. Who could possibly love me, when no one wants to see beneath the exterior skin?

I will never find someone; I will never have that beautiful relationship Carrick and Grace have with each other. I think I had long since accepted that it was in the cards for me, that it was fate, something that could never be changed. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night, feeling so fucking worthless and depressed, because of how alone I was. I would have nightmares of dying or being on my deathbed with no one there to see me; No kids, no family, no loving wife.

Just me, born alone into the world, a boy that even his own mother that gave birth to him could not bring herself to love. Then dying alone in that very same state.

It was only two months ago that I decided I have to do something drastic to change it. That was where _she_ came in. I could tell she wasn't like all the rest of those shallow bitches you get in the world. She was the exact opposite of my bitch of a biological mother.

I had to do an interview that day with some student for the newsletter at Washington University. I wasn't expecting anything to happen the way it did; I was just stuck in my head, doing tedious routine until I saw her walk past me with her blonde-haired friend to sit in the waiting area until I was ready to call her in. I had exited my office for a minute, though I can't remember for what reason for.

It was like the world had screeched to a deafening stop at the sight of her. Her friend was whispering to her, fluttering her hands around as she talked animatedly- the usual shallow bitch thing- but something about this one made me instantly believe she was different.

She wouldn't look her friend directly in the eye, but she would nod her head.

Her fashion sense wasn't all that great, to be honest. She was wearing an ugly floral pattern blouse and a matching light blue colored skirt and cardigan. I didn't care that she didn't dress the way other women did, though; It was refreshing, and just by seeing the way she was dressed, I knew she wasn't the type to be shallow and overly concerned about superficial things, like the latest fashion and how she looked. Her dark brown hair was shiny and tied up into a neat ponytail, a few limp strands tucked in behind her ears.

To my disappointment, she wasn't the one that ended up interviewing me. Instead, it was her artificial friend, whose voice was grating.

By the time her questions were done, I was relieved. I would have preferred her friend interview me; At least she wouldn't have been as air-headed and fake as Katherine Kavanagh was.

"Did you come here alone, Miss Kavanagh?" I had asked her once she was packing up her things to leave, concluding the interview. "I couldn't help noticing that you were waiting with someone?" I made it sound as though I wasn't really interested, but I was. I was playing dumb.

If I knew her name, it would be that much easier to run a background check.

"Oh, that's just my friend Anastasia." Kate Kavanagh had shrugged, smiling her fake, pretentious smile. "Ana Steele. She's graduating this year too. I was so anxious that she had to drive me here. I felt a little... under the weather this morning." _Like I even gave a shit._

Anastasia. Like Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova, youngest daughter of Russian Tsar Nicolas II.

Katherine Kavanagh left my office and a week went by. All it took, was a week to feel different, like I had more motivation and purpose in life again. I couldn't seem to get this Anastasia Steele out of my mind, how she looked like while she waited in the chair. It was something I wasn't used to feeling before, nor had I ever experienced it.

My money ended up coming in handy; For once, I had a purpose to use it. And that purpose, was Anastasia Steele.

I ran a background check, and even had the resources to hack into her email account and her SIM card on her cell phone. I found out she worked part-time at a hardware store, so I decided to go there. I wasn't planning on talking to her or getting up close. I just wanted to observe her, see what she was doing. How she acted when she worked, how she interacted with other people.

I told Taylor that I was fine driving myself for the day. I left at noon on a Saturday, not entirely sure she was working that day at Clayton's Hardware Store, but hoping she was. As I pulled up into the car park, finding a spot where I could see directly into the window of the store, just my luck, I saw her.

I wasn't sure it was her at first. Her back was to the window, but once she turned around, I was relieved to know it was her. Anastasia Steele. Before I knew what I was doing or what I was going to do in front of her, I got out of the car, pushing through the door, entering Clayton's Hardware Store.

She was at the register but there was a trolley near her that kept her attention while she scanned and priced some items. There weren't many people in the store that Saturday and I felt nervous and worried that she would see me. I wasn't ready for her to see me just yet. But then she started wheeling the trolley down an aisle and I followed her. There was something about the way she moved that I liked. She was wearing flat shoes that didn't completely cover her ankles, showing off her socks. She started pushing some packages on the shelf and I stood close behind her, close enough that I was almost touching her.

In a split second, I realized how crazy I was acting. Like some stalker.

I felt like a predator playing with its prey, like a serial killer. Only exception was, I had no intentions to kill her. I just wanted to be near her, see what she was like.

Then she had turned her head and looked back at me, something so unexpected that I very nearly decided to turn and rush out of the store. It wasn't like the usual looks I received. Her look wasn't mean like she was thinking I was an ugly monster. She just really looked me in the eyes, then she bit her lip with her front teeth, avoiding my eyes.

"Sorry," she had said, in an embarrassed voice. "Am I standing in the way of you getting something?"

I was so stunned that she was daring to talk to me and treat me like a normal person that I couldn't remember how to speak. I knew I wanted her then; This was the girl for me, this Anastasia Steele. She was not like all the others at all, she was different and unique.

I didn't know what to say so I just turned on my heel and rushed out, as quickly as possible. I felt red in the face, embarrassed. She must have thought I was some loser, just watching her and not answering her question.

That was the first time we had been near each other. That moment ended up sticking with me for the rest of the week. You hear the saying that a man is nothing if not with a purpose. After having accomplished what I wanted, in running a successful business, I now had another thing to live for, another goal to make reality.

It came to me one night when I was doing chin-ups.

It just came out of nowhere; An idea, of having Anastasia here with me, in my home. Getting to know me, me getting to know her. Her learning to look past what I look like and loving what is beneath the skin. With that first idea permeated inside my brain, I dismissed it, only to have it come back again later during the night when I was trying to sleep, yet only finding myself thinking about her while tossing and turning in the sheets.

I could find some way to bring her up here, maybe even use the guest room.

There would be no issues with any of that; The guest room hadn't been used. Mia used to sleep over sometimes, only she was away having a gap year in Paris learning the culture and language. No one used the spare room anymore, and it was in decent enough condition to actually have someone in there. I hardly had any visitors anymore and I always insisted on visiting Carrick and Grace at their house instead. Elliot never slept over. It would have only just been me here.

Of course, it would be crazy. Kidnapping Anastasia Steele and making her stay over in the guest bedroom. But I assumed, if I had good intentions and I showed her that, could she eventually come to love me?

Or was my birth mother right? I am a useless, ugly little shit. Unlovable. With the face only a mother could love, yet mine didn't love mine. So what does that make me? Doomed for life?

But surely she could grow to love me, if I brought her here, I would argue with myself when I was doubting it was a good idea. I would be so nice and good to her, and surely she wouldn't be able to help herself. I would make her see all my good qualities, enough to eventually overlook the vile, monstrous face and body once the timing was right.

But my birth mother is wrong. I can make Anastasia Steele love me. I _will_.

It was a week before I actually did it. I just had to get everything right. I had to work out when would be the perfect moment to bring her back here. Everything was meticulous and planned. I would sit on the bed in the guest room after coming home from work, mentally going through what could happen had she tried to escape using anything. She would have only been silly if she tried to throw herself out of the window. I put a new lock on the door so she couldn't get out, only me with key access.

I moved more furniture into the room so it would feel more homely to her. Not so much like a horrible, cold room that I was confining her in. It seemed comfortable enough to me and unlike a prison cell with the furnishing and nice, clean sheets and pillows that were expensive and the lamps that were expensive as well. It was just a matter of her eventually coming around to see it as such. _Hopefully_ she would.

When I looked into her texts one morning, it was there I read her conversation to Katherine Kavanagh about going out to clubs to celebrate. I called Elliot, under the guise that I wanted to go drinking with him, something we used to do often when we were younger. He agreed so I had it all planned where we would turn up where the two girls were. Katherine Kavanagh had sent the name of the club and everything.

When we had turned up the club, it was far too loud than I liked. There were too many people around and it was crowded, which had made me feel uncomfortable. I felt antsy, my heart was beating fast. It probably had more so to do with what I was going to do when I finally had Anastasia Steele alone.

I wasn't much of a social person anymore, but I stood at the bar with Elliot because he wanted a drink, paranoid that someone was staring at me or could somehow read my mind into what I was going to do. That was when I saw them. Anastasia Steele and her dumb friend; They were standing at the bar on the opposite side, waiting to be served drinks themselves.

I saw my move, and I took it.

I had tapped my brother on the shoulder, shoving my mouth near his ear. "How about we go to the other side of the bar?" When Elliot had looked confused, I simply said, pointing, "It looks like they are getting served faster over there." And it was _that_ easy.

Elliot took the bait and we moved over to the side where the girls were. Her blonde-haired friend looked at my brother as he squeezed in next to her, and I saw her do a double take, looking him over. I knew Elliot's type well, and it was definitely fake, blonde girls like her. Everything was going better than I had expected.

"You should talk to her," I had yelled at Elliot over the music, unashamed of using him as a pawn. "That girl right beside you."

He had raised his eyebrows at me in disbelief before leaning in towards her, making his move. It had all happened so easily after that; Elliot was busy and distracted by her. She was busy and distracted by him. Now I had just needed Anastasia to come outside with me.

It was slow and painful. I had to watch her get drink after drink while Elliot joined them at the table, his attention on nothing else but her friend. I stood far away, keeping my distance. I didn't even think Elliot had noticed I was gone.

But what after felt like two whole hours of standing around, not even allowing myself to have just one drink in case I got too sloppy, it had finally happened. Anastasia waved a hand over her face to get some air to it, tipsy after two large drinks and one shot of tequila. She said something to her friend who nodded, her attention returning back to my brother as he laughed, saying some dumb joke to her. I watched Anastasia Steele's retreating form as she pushed her way through the crowd, checking for certain where she was going before I had started following her.

Once I got outside, I looked around, searching for her. For a minute there, I hadn't seen her. I was starting to fear she had left, which would have foiled my plans completely. But she was still there, standing near a bush, her arms wrapped around herself as she swayed side to side in her dress. She was cold, and I could tell.

But it was _perfection_. If I _was_ actually going to follow through and do it, it was the best time.

I looked around again, just as a precaution. No one had been around, aside from two men that were smoking near the entrance. I didn't want to think too much about what I was doing, because I would only feel guilty or even change my mind and not go through with it. I made sure I kept my mind completely blank as I started walking towards where she was standing, being mindful of how loud I was walking.

Once again, I had flashed a look around me. No one but us was out and the bushes concealed her from the men smoking their cigarettes so I strode towards her from behind, my heart pumping, something exhilarating building within me, and then I caught her. I clasped a hand around her mouth and she was that tipsy that she actually laughed at first into my palm, thinking it all a weird joke.

I held her to me tight and for a second there, she didn't struggle at all while I held my hand tight over her mouth so she couldn't scream. She didn't seem scared at all, which was unbelievable. Until I wrapped my other arm around her to get to her nose, of course. When I squeezed her nose with my thumb and forefinger, shutting off her breathing through her nostrils, that was when she had started to struggle and fight.

She started making noises that were muffled by my palm and she had started wriggling in my arms, kicking at me with her heels.

For a moment there, I wondered, _What the fuck am I doing? This isn't the right way._ I should just ask her out or talk to her. But knowing from past experience, I had no doubt whatsoever that she would never give me the time of day. Not with how I looked.

When her struggling ceased and she went limp against me, I knew she was unconscious then. There was no way of going back, it was already too late. It had already been done. I turned her around so that she was facing me, pulled her heavy arms over my shoulders, and lifted her, carrying her towards the car. She wasn't even that heavy. I guess all my work-outs had paid off, in a big way.

By the time I had gotten to the parking lot where my car was parked, stroking the back of her head, a group of people were standing around. They had all turned to look at me, so I had just said, trying to sound concerned, "My girlfriend fainted. I'm taking her home now."

How ironic it was, to call her my girlfriend.

But hopefully she will be. _Hopefully_ she'll eventually look past what I have done. Most of all, hopefully she will be able to look beneath the skin.

 **HOPE THIS WAS OKAY? HOPE YOU ARE STILL ENJOYING IT? I hope it isn't a let down, as far as revealing too much. I know it was probably creepy too, my apologies. Hope I didn't fail getting into Christian's head, as perverse as it may be. A few people have requested to have a Christian POV. Sorry if it was boring or bad or too inconceivable and unrealistic.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you so much for being so kind and supportive. Hope this one is okay. We are back inside Ana's point of view now.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE**

 **ANA POV:**

I stand around anxiously as he opens a bottle of wine, playing with my fingers. I have no idea what to do with myself. Really, I don't want to be here. I don't want to have anything to do with any part of this. And yet, I have no choice. I can't go anywhere, I'm stuck here. He is forcing me to do this. My main instinct is to run and yet, I can't do that. He won't let me.

"Here's your wine." He hands me a half full glass of white wine and I take a small, cautious sip while he does the same with his, his eyes boring into mine. Yeah, I don't want to be here at all, but at least the wine is good- some tiny thing to put into a better perspective. "How is it?" he asks unexpectedly, though I have no idea what he is referring to. _The wine?_

I try to appear purposefully blase about it, playing with the stem of the wine glass as a way to avoid his gaze. "Yeah, the wine's... no _t too_ bad. It isn't my favorite but it'll-"

"- No, not the wine," he cuts over me quietly. "I didn't mean the wine. Your _foot_."

 _Oh, my bandaged foot._ I shrug again, not wanting to talk.

I wait for him to sit before I do the same. He pulls my chair out for me, and maybe, in another circumstance I may have found this nice and chivalrous of him. But there is nothing nice or chivalrous about him, not when I know he is holding me captive here. He is my captor and clearly, he is a nut-job, no matter how much I may find myself feeling sorry for him.

 _Get your head in the game, Steele,_ I remind myself as I sit in the chair, placing my glass of wine on the table. _Get to know him like he obviously wants..._

My stomach still remains in knots, my hands shaking. I feel tense all over. I still just want to go home- and I don't think anything could change that.

He sits, scraping his chair in closer to the table. "Thank you," he says again appreciatively as he picks up his cutlery. "I don't think anyone has cooked dinner for me before. As I said, it's... unexpected."

No one has ever cooked dinner for him before? How ridiculous. "But what about your family? Your... your mother even? Surely she has cooked dinner for you at least _once_ , hasn't she?"

I realize just how much talking about his mother is a touchy subject for him. I sense it, in the way his body goes still, almost rigid, beneath his baby blue business shirt. _Okay, so he obviously has mommy issues. Another thing to take note of on just what not to talk about with him._

I force myself to pick up my own knife and fork, sawing through a piece of chicken. My appetite is gone. While I know I feel hungry, eating is just a battle to try to get through. I stuff a small piece of chicken into my mouth, my throat tightening and closing over to the point where I find it difficult to swallow. I can't eat, not with him here. He evidently isn't having any difficulties like I am.

He eats like a man that hasn't eaten anything in days, shoveling forkfuls of the stir-fry into his mouth like a deprived, starving dog. I would have found it hilarious- watching a man eat when most of his face is covered from me by a silly ski-mask- yet I find nothing laughable about this situation at all.

He likes the dinner I have slaved away making for him, I can tell. Maybe I should have tried to poison him after all?

When I try to think of something clever to say to break the horrible silence between us, it occurs to me that I haven't even so much as asked him what his name is. It seems stupid of me, not bothering to ask him such a simple yet important question. Yet, ever since being here, I haven't exactly wanted to know what his name was. I didn't care. I just want out of here.

"What's your name?" I bring myself to ask with tremendous effort. He pauses for a long moment, chewing down on what's inside his mouth. It's disturbing; Him eating with that balaclava on. I really just wish he would take it off for me already. "I realize I haven't even asked what your name is yet? So what is it?"

He reaches out, taking a long sip of his wine. It's like he is trying to drag it out for as long as humanly possible.

"Your name?" I repeat again, making my voice firmer.

He licks his lips, slumping back in the chair. "Why should it matter, just what my name is? It's not important."

"But you already know my name somehow? You know who I am? Isn't it fair that I know your name as well? Just to... even out the playing field a little?"

He takes another sip of his wine, his eyes on nothing else but his plate of food. _Just tell me your fucking name already. Please, and thank you._

He licks his lips again. "Christian," he murmurs in a voice so low and throaty that I almost think I've misunderstood him for a second. "My name is Christian, Anastasia."

 _Christian._ I feel my mind go into overdrive at that admission. _Christian. Christian. Where have I met someone over two months ago that had the name Christian?_

Feeling as though I am on a roll, I try to get more information out of him; As much as I can before he clams up again. "And we met two months ago?"

"Yes. About that."

"Where? Where did we meet exactly?"

He lets go of his fork and knife, practically out of nowhere, sending them clattering onto his plate loudly. He brings a hand up to where his nose would probably be beneath the balaclava, pinching it. His eyes close and I think I hear him sigh heavily. I'm pissing him off by all the questions, but oddly enough, I cannot bring myself to care right now. I want answers, and I want them right now. This would be so much easier to deal with if I understood completely into why he is doing this to me the way he is.

"Why can't you just tell me?" I hiss in frustration. "Surely you had to have known that by in bringing me here, I was bound to ask questions like this sooner or later. You said you just wanted us to get to know each other, remember? So isn't this just what I am trying to do?" His eyes open and he lifts his head, blinking at me, irritation gleaming in his eyes. "We can't get to know each other if _I'm the only one_ being forthcoming and _you_ aren't. It isn't the way its supposed to work."

Anger spreads throughout me like fire in a scary way. I have never considered myself an angry, spiteful person but he just naturally brings it out of me. It's either that or remain scared shitless.

"You look so fucking stupid." It tears out of my mouth vindictively before I know what I'm even doing. "Do you see that? With that thing on your face, you look stupid." I can't even bring myself to care whether I am upsetting him or not. I am beyond caring right now, about anything. "You say you want for us to get to know each other, yet how can I possibly want to when you can't even show me what your face looks like?"

He just sits there, still as anything, taking it. He doesn't even bother arguing back. He just sits there with both hands clenched on the table near his plate. _How ridiculous is that!_

"Or do you even wear that stupid thing to work and when you are out in public too?"

He makes a deep grunting noise of amusement. No, not He. Christian. He has a name now. A _name_. "Of course I don't. Don't you think it would be suspicious if I did?" The words are sarcastic, filled with irony.

"Then what _makes me_ the exception? _Why can't_ you show me your face like you do to every other person when you are out in public? If you want us to get to know each other properly, then you can start by taking that stupid thing off otherwise you won't be getting what you want from me. I'll go on a talking strike, and I will never talk to you ever again while you have me here like this!"

Again, he just sits there silently, passively. His eyes are clenched tightly closed, like he is wishing he was somewhere else other than here with me, right now, with what I'm saying and doing. _Well, tough luck._

I hear his breathing go louder and unsteady as he finally moves, bringing both hands up towards the front of his throat, his fingers trembling. He curls his fingers under the opening of the ski-mask, gripping it tight.

 _Holy shit. I think he's actually going to do it! He's going to take it off!_

And it finally happens. In what feels a short second, he peels it off, tucking his chin down low towards his chest, his eyes still clenched tightly closed as he breathes shakily, like he is petrified to open his eyes and see the reaction that will come across my face.

He isn't bad at all. He isn't even what I think anyone would consider repulsive, so he must have just only been lying about that, using it as an excuse to trick me.

There are no severe scars or a gruesome disfigurement like I had been given the impression of before. He looks just the same as anyone else, maybe even a little bit better.

Just like I felt with my hands when he came into the room and let me touch his face last night, he's in dire need of a good shave. He's got a light beard, which makes him appear rugged. He has two ears, an angular-shaped nose, two eyebrows, a normal shaped mouth. He isn't bald, either; He has thick dark-brown hair that looks red tinged in the lights, unruly and sticking upright from the way he pulled the balaclava off. Nothing looks abnormal or out of place at all. _So what the fuck was he going on about?_

He's, dare I even begin to think it, handsome. It's wrong and messed-up to think that about him, but its true.

"I... I don't think I understand?" I get out slowly in a confused whisper. "You said you looked repulsive? Well, you said you _knew_ that _I_ would find you repulsive?"

"And I _am_ ," he mutters defensively. He still won't open his eyes and so much as even look at me. It's as though he refuses not to. Either that, or he's just scared to?

"But your not?"

"Aren't I?" The words are bitten out through clenched teeth bitterly. "I know you are just saying that, Anastasia. You don't really mean it. You're just saying that because you want me to let you go."

Finally, he reopens his eyes, blinking slowly. Like he has to really work himself up to it, he musters up the energy to lift his chin, at last meeting my gaze. He tilts his head upward to the ceiling, enough that I can make out that faint scar beneath his chin. The facial hair covers it mostly though, and maybe that's why he has a preference for the facial hair; Because it hides that one, little scar. It isn't bad at all, which makes this all the more bewildering.

"Now what do you think?" he asks quietly, uncertainty tinging his voice. "Still think that now?"

I hesitate before saying it. "Yes. Yes, I do still think that."

I can tell he doesn't believe me. He assumes I'm lying or trying to suck up to him. But I'm not. He really isn't in anyway repulsive at all. He must just _think_ he is. It must all be inside his head.

"Well, you just wait." He stands from the chair without warning, his hands moving towards the buttons on his shirt. "Did you celebrate your birthdays as a kid?" The question is so unexpected, a contrast to his actions, that I feel stunned in confusion for a good second.

It takes me a good minute to get my head straight. "Um, yes. I did. My parents did for me."

"Oh? And how did you celebrate?" I have no idea why he is bothering to ask, but I try to answer as honest as possible.

"Well, we went out to the park sometimes. When my mother and my stepfather Ray were still together, we would go out to the park and get lunch and they would let me play."

I can't tell if that is exactly what he wants to hear from me, but I am hoping it is.

He nods once, seemingly satisfied, his hands still pulling the buttons on his shirt undone at a leisurely slow pace. "And did you get presents?"

"Sure, I did. One year, I really wanted a bike. So Ray and my mother got me one. It had training wheels and everything. Did _you_ celebrate your birthdays?" I shake my head. "Is that why you are bothering to ask?"

"Let me show you my presents," he says, in a strange tone, opening his shirt up fully.

I don't know where to look, but he makes sure I look at him when he steps directly in front of my chair. I really don't want to look at his body. I don't care for it at all, so I keep my eyes cast on my full plate with difficulty.

"I don't remember much about the presents I got from my lovely mother, but what I do remember, is how it felt to receive them. Like _this_ one, for instance." I can't help lifting my head and looking. I just can't help it. I hate that I recognize how athletic he looks, how toned. He definitely keeps himself in good shape; He's muscular and not at all unpleasant to look at, and its terrible of me to acknowledge that, especially when he is doing this to me. He fingers a round, blistered mark in the center of his chest, just above his flat nipple. "I think I got this one on my third birthday."

If he is trying to make an example of how different his childhood was in comparison to mine, he is succeeding. I feel my heart constrict, my eyes widening in horror.

"And _this_." Folding up his sleeve, he extends his arm to me, showing another round, blistered mark on the inside of his forearm. "And here." This time, he shows me multiple round marks around his rib-cage area. "Weren't I lucky that I had a mother that would give me such lovely presents?"

 _Are they... cigarette burns? His mother put cigarettes out on his skin? Is that what he is trying to tell me?_

"I don't remember much about them. I do remember how they felt, though. How bad the pain was, how loud I cried. And you want to know what my lovely mother said to me when I did cry?"

 _No,_ I want to say, shaking. _No, I don't want to know. I think I've seen enough._

"Shut up, you little shit," he growls, though he isn't yelling. He's imitating her. His mother. "You keep crying, and you'll get more. Is that what you want, you _good-for-nothing_ little brat?"

Now I wish I hadn't bothered telling him to take his balaclava off. I had gathered the suspicion that he may have been abused as a child, that he had a terrible childhood. I just never realized it was _that bad_. What his own mother did to him, it is... fathomless. Who could do that to their very own child? Who could do something like that?

"But that _isn't the worst_ present I got from my mother. Want to see it?"

No, I plead wordlessly. I don't want to see it. No more. Please, oh please, no more.

He tears off his shirt, throwing it at his feet. Then he turns, showing his back to me. What I see there, is just... _Oh my God._ The tears cascade down my cheeks uncontrollably as I stare at the worst of it. And he isn't exaggerating; It _truly is_ the worst.

 _What the hell was wrong with his mother?_

"See? Can you see it now?" He breathes out, extending both arms in the air. He makes a deep, anguishing noise of pain. "See how revolting I am now? How disgusting? Who in their right mind would even want to so much as touch me or love me while I'm stuck like this?"

The skin on his back is ravaged and blistered. Starting from an inch below the nape of his neck, straight down to the lower part of his back, concealed by his trousers. Maybe he's even burnt on his buttocks too? I don't know.

"I think I was playing outside in the dirt when she gave me this. I had no toys to play with, no bike like you did. I was dirty, and she didn't like that. So she grabbed me by the hand, yanked me inside, and told me how unclean I was, how filthy... She turned on the shower, and she yelled at me to go stand under there and think about what I've done..." He sniffles loudly and I realize he is probably crying. "So I did, and it was so... so fucking hot that it burned me, the water. She had it so it would run extra hot at maximum level, and it scalded my skin off, and yet the bitch _did nothing_ but listen to me crying and screaming. Third degree burns, they said it was. I think the doctors even said it was the worst case of child abuse they had ever seen, at the time."

 _Jesus. His mother made him stand under boiling hot water in the shower?_

"And so what happened to her?" I bring myself to ask, relieved when he finally turns back to look at me, his scarred back gone from view. "Did she get jail time for it?"

"No, she didn't." He smiles at me, in a bitter way. His eyes are wet and shining bleakly. "The bitch just dropped me off at the hospital and left. I think when they found her, they realized what she had done. She committed suicide, straight after she had left me at the hospital. By the time the nurses rushed out to get me, she had disappeared with the car."

Shit. So she never even got jail time. She never even had to remain alive long enough to fully suffer for what she had done to him.

"There was a time there where I actually mourned for her. But now, when I think about it, she doesn't deserve me mourning for her. She never wanted me and she never truly loved me. I was a burden to her. She made that clear in all the ways she treated me and talked to me. She was _nothing more_ than a bitch, and she deserved to die, no matter how it happened or when. It was... enough for me."

"I'm so sorry," I manage, even though it hardly seems like enough. "No child deserves to go through that."

"Well, maybe I _did_ deserve it?"

No, I think to myself. No child can ever deserve that, no matter how disobedient they are. It's just... horrible. But it doesn't excuse what he is doing to me. Other abused children don't end up doing this to a person. They can still turn out normal and do well in life. But at least he has finally let me see his face. I can see his face now.

And I know his name, too.

 _Christian._

But he said we had met before. I know for sure now that we haven't; I think I've seen him somewhere before, because I recognize his face. But I don't believe we have actually properly met, in the real way. So why would he tell me that? It doesn't make any logical sense to me whatsoever.

 **Hope this one was okay? I didn't want to drag it out for too long, so I finally made him reveal his face to her. Hoping it isn't too weird. Liking it? Hating it? I would love to know. Thank you so much for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. Just a massive fan.**

 **I want to send a huge thank you everybody's way, for your kind and encouraging words. It means the world to me x Hope this chapter is alright. I may not get the chance to update before Christmas so if not, I hope you have a safe and happy Christmas :)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN**

Seven days. I've been here so far for a total of seven days now, or so _he_ has told me. A full week now. It might as well be seven years, with how painfully slow the hours seem to go, especially when I am alone in the house and he is at work.

I've been trying to give him hell all week. Hoping that if he sees how difficult I am making this for him, he will eventually decide it isn't worth it, in keeping me here and that he'll let me leave out of the goodness in his heart. So far, it hasn't worked though.

I've done everything I could think of: I have been making sure I watch the news daily, but I haven't heard anymore on that WU student that has gone missing.

I've tried the cordless phone I found in another room I hadn't been in before, which looked like a home office, only to find it was disconnected, like he said.

When he leaves for work, I search his room, shoving my hands into the pockets of the clothes he wore the previous night before, trying to find one of the key cards he mentioned about that is the only way out of this place, giving me access to use the elevator. That too, has failed. He must be so calculated and methodical about all of this; He must know to take all the key cards with him so I couldn't possibly ever find them to get out.

I have also started throwing stuff down over the balcony, stuff he wouldn't notice has gone missing in a hurry. Like kitchen appliances, for instance. His toaster and a few forks. He noticed the toaster was missing the instance he got home, yet he wasn't mad when I confessed what I had done at all. I think in some sick and perverted way, it may have even impressed him, the lengths I am going to. But I thought that someone at least would be concerned and come up here to find out what that was all about, someone throwing out stuff over the balcony that could do serious damage if it so happened to hit someone that was walking on the pavement directly below the building.

So far, no one has even bothered to come check. Not even the police.

My moods have been everywhere, fluctuating between anger at him, to pity. Pity for how he was treated as a child, the abuse he suffered and the physical scars from that- just as he showed me five nights ago. Usually that pity only lasts for ten minutes at the most, and then I'm off almost hating him and wishing some bad things onto him that I never dreamed I would think so maliciously of before.

I have tried to be nice to him, yet its impossible. I thought seeing his face now would make it easier to deal with, but it hasn't at all. Sometimes I will just stare at his face and wish I could slap him. He's just so passive in an extremely irritating way.

Last night, I went above and beyond the usual.

After making dinner for him, I just started chucking my plate and cutlery on the floor out on some crazy whim. And what did he do? Yell and get angry? Lash out on me finally, telling me to stop it with a threat? No, he didn't do anything. He just knelt down, warning me to watch that my feet don't get cut on the broken shards of porcelain, and that was it. He carried a dustpan and broom over to clean all the mess up, not even expecting me to do it.

It astounds me that, no matter how hard I try to push him, he won't be moved into violence.

Of course I'm glad that he seems to be so determined to treat me well. He's shown me all week that he has no true intentions to hurt me physically- just deny me my basic human rights of freedom. Slapping him, screaming at him, breaking things... he shows admirable self-restraint. I wonder if he's used to being abused and sworn at though. Maybe that was the exact same treatment he got from his abusive mother and now he is naturally conditioned to being treated that way by the opposite sex?

Either way, his actions have shown me he has no intentions to beat me up or rape me. He hasn't attempted to do either of those things, not in a full week of me being stuck in his house. He hasn't come into the room he keeps me in at the middle of the night for any unpleasant surprise visits. He's respectful to me in that way.

But no matter how well he has been treating me so far, sometimes I feel on the verge of breaking down in hopeless despair. Other times I am so filled with a raging fire of determination that makes me feel as though nothing can truly get me down, not even one failed attempt at escaping or capturing his sympathy after the other.

These seven days have probably been the loneliest I have ever felt in my entire life. I feel so lonely, so stuck and secluded from the world, which I realistically am.

 _Christian._

I catch myself craving the minute he comes home from work, which is terrible. I actually count down the minutes to go, until he does now. Seven full days of being alone and having no contact with anyone else will do that to you.

But he wants me this way. He's doing this to me. He's keeping me isolated from everything I used to know, breaking me down so I feel glad whenever he comes home because he is literally the only person I have left in my world right now. A part of me believes its exactly his intentions, its what he wants. He wants me to think he is all I have left. He wants it this way; He wants me to be isolated and lonely, only to feel pleased when he comes home. Like a twisted mind game.

I still have no clue what he expects from me. When I ask him, he either doesn't say anything or he deliberately says cryptic things. Like when I ask for a specific time-frame of how long he expects me to stay here, he'll say, "For however long it takes. For however long it takes to happen."

For what to happen, though? What can he possibly expect to happen while keeping me here the way he is?

It's the most frustrating yet simultaneously scary thing about this. He won't be direct with me and tell me what he wants. If he just told me and was straightforward, I think I would do whatever he wants, whatever it takes to make it so I get out of here quicker. Yet he refuses to have it that way.

Either way, I know I'm going to die if he doesn't eventually let me go.

Maybe not die by him killing me or inflicting harm on me, but... kindness. And maybe that's his tactic? He wants me to die. He wants to eventually kill me with his kindness.

* * *

Just like a usual thing that I have done with being here lately, I make a start on getting dinner prepared. It's been a routine I have quickly adopted; Cooking seems to be the only thing that soothes me right now.

It offers a nice and peaceful distraction, and getting the measurements and ingredients right forces me to focus on that rather instead of dwelling on anything else, like the mind-numbing, crippling loneliness I have been feeling.

It's five thirty in the afternoon, and I have learned by observation that he arrives home just after six.

Throughout the week, he has asked me what I would like, as far as food goes. He stocked the fridge with good food so that I could cook decent meals. I just asked him for ingredients to make the food I am familiar with, the recipes I know by heart that I would make at the apartment with Kate.

He has been bizarrely over-appreciative and grateful with the meals I do make for dinner when he comes home; It's like what he said before, was actually true. That no one ever cooks for him. If so, then that's just downright tragic. Just like his childhood was, with his abusive mother.

While I have some potatoes and peas boiling on the stove, I leave them for a few minutes, heading out onto the balcony. Another small thing to be appreciative of lately, is the amazing view. At night, all the buildings light up in the dark. _At least he isn't denying me that, the peacefulness in standing out on the balcony..._

I've just been standing out for barely two minutes at the most, leaning against the railing and staring up into the grey cover of clouds beginning to form over the sun, when I hear the tell-tale noise that he has arrived home.

 _Fuck, he's arrived home already. Is it even past six yet?_

Feeling panicked, I rush back inside, running barefooted into the kitchen, pretending to be busy in peering into the fully stocked fridge trying to decide what meat to go with the boiled vegetables. He still hasn't given me my shoes back but at least my foot no longer requires a bandage, which makes for easy running. My foot has healed enough that I no longer require anything; It's just a scab now that's fading slowly.

He doesn't announce himself as he enters the kitchen; He never does, I've learned that very clearly by being stuck here. It's like he almost expects to find me doing something I shouldn't so he can catch me off-guard.

I peer over my shoulder, my stomach tensing, to find him halfway through pulling his jacket off. He always dresses so suave and business-like. I haven't even asked him what his job entails exactly, or just where it is he works at. Honestly, it's been the last thing on my list to do. Half the time, it takes a lot of energy to work myself up into talking to him and being pleasant.

When he finally looks my way, he nods once in acknowledgement before leaving the room to go into his bedroom. I hear the door close fully, and its like an instant load-off.

Despite him being mild-mannered and hardly aggressive towards me no matter what I do, I still can't ease that constant tension in my muscles. It's always there, at the back of my mind, no matter how hard I try to push it away and focus on just being in the moment with him, that he's keeping me here like a prisoner. He's my jailer. He could literally decide to do anything to me at any given moment. It's just fortunate that for me, he hasn't tried anything yet.

 _He's just biding his time,_ I always seem to be reminding myself. _He isn't a normal and sane person, otherwise he wouldn't keep you here like this. He may put on this facade of being nice and well-mannered to you, but underneath, truly...he is just a malevolent beast waiting for the precise moment to strike. Never lose sight of that, Steele. Never._

By the time I hear his door reopen, I have steak already on the counter while I fuss around, trying to find a decent-sized pan to use to cook them in.

"Wrong cupboard," his voice comes from behind me, startling me. I hadn't heard him come into the kitchen that quickly.

"What?" I ask quietly.

"Wrong cupboard. If you are looking for the pans, they are under here." He slips in next to me, bending down to open one of the cupboards to show me where they are. Surely enough, they are in the bottom of the cupboard, neatly stacked near one another.

"Okay. I just need one big enough for two steaks."

He finds one for me, bringing it out. He places it on the sink, stepping back to leave me in peace to do my work. He never seems to like being in his own kitchen very much, though I don't know why. Being wary of him and constantly watching him has made me learn a lot these past seven days.

"Seeing as you know where everything is, you might as well do the steaks yourself then," I suggest petulantly, the anger slipping inside of me easily, taking over.

It's how I've been lately, sometimes without any control on it. He makes me so aggravated, even when he isn't actually doing anything to make me feel that way. One minute, I am trying to be understanding and pretending like I want to get to know him. Then in the next, I've changed, turning into a defensive and hostile person towards him.

"You can cook the steaks while I set the table."

Relieved to get out of the small space in his kitchen while he is in there, I pull the drawer open, grabbing the cutlery before moving to where the table is. When I turn back to look at him, I see he is just standing there, the pan still where he left it on the sink. He's just staring hard at the steak still in the plastic packaging, sort of confused, like he doesn't know what he is supposed to do. How stupid. _I mean, how fucking hard can it be to do something as basic and ordinary as cooking steak? Is he that clueless?_

It's been seven days and still, I find it disarming that I can see his face completely now. I can see everything he is feeling, work out his expressions. Read him now that he isn't wearing that ridiculous balaclava anymore. Weird thing is, I don't find him in anyway repulsive, like he had initially suspected I would have. Sometimes I have caught myself wondering, wondering if he would be the type of man I would be attracted to in the real world, if we had somehow met out on the street. But he _does_ repulse me, just not with how his physical features are.

He repulses me with his actions and what he is doing to me, refusing to let me leave. Yet, I find him somewhat... fascinating to look at. The two differences are impossible to reconcile.

"Turn on the stove and let it heat up while you undo the steaks and put them in the pan," I say, losing my patience. "You're acting like you haven't even cooked yourself a steak before?"

He sighs loudly in frustration, lifting a hand to rub it down the side of his face. I think he looks embarrassed, though I may be mistaken.

"What? Is that it?" I mutter in disbelief, arching my brows. "You've never actually even cooked a steak before?"

Christian's jaw twitches as he grits his teeth. He definitely is embarrassed, because he won't even dare to lift his eyes to meet mine. "I don't cook," he admits quietly after a long moment, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again, the mortification there almost radiating off of him. "I know its... stupid but I don't cook much. I haven't actually even used the stove before."

 _Holy shit. He hasn't ever used his own stove before?_ I should find it pathetic, yet my pity for him overrides it. "Do you even know how to cook at all?"

"Of course I do, Anastasia." He shrugs, in an overly defensive way. "I know how to make salads and do toast. It's just all of this... other stuff that I am not completely familiar with." I know he's lying; He doesn't know how to cook at all, but he just doesn't want me knowing that he can't. It's something that will damage his ego, I can tell.

 _My God. It's truly no wonder he seems so appreciative over me cooking him dinner then. He mustn't eat anything for dinner because he lacks the knowledge on how to cook himself anything..._

"Salads don't count," I say patronizingly before I can stop myself. "You just buy the ingredients and mix them together raw. I don't think that classifies as cooking, not really. And toast? I don't think that counts either when all you do is put slices of bread in the toaster..."

"Okay," he mutters over me loudly, slapping a hand against the counter roughly in all his irritation. "So I'm pretty fucking stupid that I don't know how to cook at my age. Are you happy now that I have admitted that to you?"

 _Oops. Another touchy subject for him obviously..._

I've obviously pushed him far enough, damaging his ego. I think of a way to backtrack, something to make him feel better. "It's okay," I whisper, trying to placate him. "I'm sure a lot of people don't know how to cook, no matter what age they are. It's not such a bad thing, and I'm _sure_ you'll pick it up quickly with some practice. I only learned when I was a kid because I had to." I can tell he is still irritated when I come back into the kitchen, talking him through it patiently. It's only once the steaks start sizzling in the pan on the stove-top that his mood seems to brighten at the results of what he is doing so far. "Just turn them over after three minutes so they cook evenly on both sides. It's _that_ easy."

"You're making fun of me."

"No, I'm not. I'm really not, I swear." _Or am I?_

"I _know_ you are. I _know_ that's what you are doing."

"I'm _not_ ," I say again, trying to sound more convincing. "And besides, even if you don't know how to cook much, I can teach you and that's a start. You just need a bit of practice and... patience. Then you'll see it isn't so hard."

 _I shouldn't be teaching him how to cook, not really,_ my brain screams at me. _That isn't a good way of thinking. He can go starve and die, for all I care. I shouldn't care that he doesn't know how to cook. He doesn't deserve my sympathy._

But no, I can't just let him starve. I'm not that person, even if I think it and garner some sense of satisfaction in wishing the worst for him like I have been doing lately. I can wish it, but I can never completely go through with it. Because whether I like it or not, he decides my fate. I can't escape until he either lets me go, or I find where he puts all the key cards to gain access of the elevator to get out of here.

I stab at one of the potatoes with a fork, testing it out. It seems soft enough, so I carry the pot off the stove, tipping the water out down into the drain in the sink.

"So you learned to cook as a kid?" he asks me, and when I glance behind my shoulder, I discover he is staring at me, watching me with those disturbing deep gray eyes of his.

"I did, because I had to. My parents worked long hours so I had to learn how to fend for myself. But when my parents divorced, it was... different. I cooked for my father while I stayed with him, because he was nearly as..." - I hesitate, trying to find the right word that won't insult him- " _unsure_ as you were about how to cook."

"Why did your parents divorce?"

"I don't know. I guess they just... grew apart and wanted different things. They never really told me the reason why. My mother seemed pretty happy to move on quickly to the next man, though. Less than a year later, she had already moved in with this other guy that she met in another state while I stayed where I was with my father."

"You didn't go live with her?"

I don't really see why he could feel it is so interesting, my parents. But I decide there isn't too much harm in him knowing. "No, I didn't because I was still in school. It would have meant being pulled out of school to go live with her which would have been... annoying since I had already made friends and had settled in. So they decided it would be better for me if I stayed with my dad and remain where I was in the same school." I dish out, placing the steaming hot potatoes and the peas on the plates. "I did go visit my mother and her new partner once. For about a week. I just... I didn't like him, to be honest. But my mother was really into him and she _still_ is, so what could I do?"

"Why didn't you like him?"

I feel myself tense up, for another entirely different reason; One that has absolutely nothing to do with his presence for once. I have never really talked about it to anyone. Not even Kate.

"Well, her partner Steve, he just... when I went to visit them and stay in the house with them for the week, he was just very... _forward_. I _guess_ forward is the word you could use to describe him. And very... inappropriate, too. He just said a few comments that I felt were extremely inappropriate for a man to say to his partner's teenage daughter. He just made me feel uncomfortable by the things he would say. I guess he just didn't understand that there are certain things you don't say to your partner's daughter, things that overstep certain... boundaries."

Once I dump the pot in the empty sink, turning to look at him, I find he is staring at me, his eyes squinted in avid concentration. "What kind of things did he say? What inappropriate things exactly?"

God, I wish he wouldn't bother asking. It's uncomfortable enough as it is, having to speak it out loud to someone. Especially to _him_ , of all people. But he _did_ say he wanted to get to know me. I might be that much closer to being given my freedom if I let him.

"Well, my mother was working late and we were watching the TV while waiting for her to get home. He said something to me like, 'Do you think you'll be nervous when its your first time, Ana?' He made it seem like a good joke, like he was fooling around with me, but it made me feel uncomfortable."

"And why did he feel the need to ask you that? Why did he bring that question up?"

I force my eyes away from him, checking the steaks in the pan. Since he seems too busy with listening to me, I flip them over myself.

"It's been awhile, so its a bit hard to remember just why he bought it up the way he had. I think we were watching a movie though, and a love scene came on between the two actors. Maybe he just wasn't aware of what was appropriate to say to your girlfriend's daughter and what wasn't? I don't know." I shrug, immediately wishing we weren't talking about it. Even to this day, when I think about his comment, it still makes me feel uncomfortable. "He was in his early forties at the time and he hadn't had children, so maybe he lacked knowledge on how to speak to one? Who knows?"

When I throw a quick look his way again, to my misfortune, he is still watching me. But there's a bit of tension there around his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight, his eyes squinted into small, hard slits. He seems almost... dangerously angry, though I don't get why he would be.

"And what?" he hisses through clenched teeth. "Did he ever-"

"- _Touch_ me?" I butt though him, knowing what he was about to ask. "Do anything else to me? No, he didn't. I don't think Steve is actually... like that. I think he was just ignorant on what he should say to me and what he shouldn't. That's all." Desperate to forget our conversation, I check the steak again. "Okay, the steaks ready. You can dish it out on the plate."

With the stove turned off and everything done, we bring our plates over to the dining table, pulling out our usual seats. This is what we have been doing every night for the past six days. We'll sit and eat the dinner I cooked, though sometimes we don't speak. There are times where I don't feel in the mood, that I feel too consumed with hatred to even dare talk to him. But tonight isn't one of those nights. Tonight, I feel ready to try again; To try seeing whether if I asked hard enough and persistently enough, then he would finally give me an honest answer on why he has me here. I figure he has to crack and break eventually.

"So what about your father?" I ask carefully, because I don't know yet if that's another issue for him to talk about. "I know you... you told me about your mother, but you never mentioned anything about your father? Where was he when..." I trail off uncertainly.

He finishes my sentence for me, "Where was he when my bitch of a mother treated me like shit, you mean?"

I can't get over how disturbing it is for him to speak of his very own mother like that, in such a hateful, cold tone. But really, when I think about what he has shown me, what she gave him as a boy, all the anguish and pain she caused him, I suppose he is completely justified in referring to her in that way. "Yes, that's... exactly what I mean. Where was he? I don't understand how he could let her treat you that way and not do anything about it to make her stop?"

He places both elbows on the table, lifting a hand to rub his fingers over his lightly bearded chin. "I never... knew who my father was. The bitch was a whore though. She... was very promiscuous. I don't know if she was a prostitute but she certainly acted like one. I think I remember her having sex with this one guy while I was still in the room, and she didn't even give a shit that I could see." I feel shocked at his words, at how... unimaginably horrible his childhood must have been. It's just so impossible to believe because it sounds that bad. "She probably had sex with so many different men that she couldn't even remember who my biological father was. With her, with what she had done to me, it really wouldn't surprise me if that was it."

"You have a lot of... hate for her," I observe uneasily.

"Well, wouldn't you have a lot of hate for someone like that as well? If they told you constantly that you were worthless, ugly. If they treated you like a burden, something they never wanted in the first place? If they... hurt you?"

"I don't know. It's... hard to say how I _would_ feel. Obviously I can't... put myself in your shoes."

To my relief, everything is silent for a few minutes, while Christian picks up his cutlery and starts eating.

"So is _this_ what you want?" It tears out of my mouth before I can help it. I need to know if I'm making any progress. "Just _this_? Us talking like this and getting to know each other?"

He simply nods once at me, chewing down on a piece of steak. It makes a big lump swell in my chest.

"Are you lonely?" I've gotten the impression that he is. He seems a deeply lonely person to me. Damaged, due to what happened to him as a child. And unstable. And insecure especially, due to the way he assumes he looks to other people.

He swallows, staring into my eyes deeply for a prolonged moment. I think he might be searching for something in my expression, but I don't know what. I hope he doesn't see anything that makes him feel I'm playing him.

"I've been lonely for an extremely long time, yes. I won't lie to you."

"What about friends?" I ask. "Your... your family?"

"All my life, I have been alienated. I don't have any friends." His voice drops just below a regretful whisper. "I only have my family. Aside from them, my foster family, I have... nothing else."

"That can't be true," I get out, laughing shakily. "I mean, look at your beautiful house! You have this large house, with so many beautiful things! You have a gorgeous view of Seattle, and all you have to do is step outside on your balcony to see it. I bet your house is extremely expensive?"

He shrugs carelessly. "It's just materialistic things. Nothing important."

"Well, you are clearly doing well for yourself, aren't you?" I hope to God I don't sound as though I am sucking up to him, that I'm just saying that. Part of me _is_ just saying it, while another part of me... it's trying to understand. "You have obviously accomplished a lot and have overcome what happened in your childhood?"

All he does is stare at me, in a strangely intense way. I don't think I have ever met anyone with such an unnerving, piercing gaze before.

"I suppose what I'm trying to work out here, is just... _why_ you feel the need to do this to someone like me?" I shake my head helplessly, at a loss. "You have obviously done well in life. You have what seems to be an... expensive and beautiful place, overlooking Seattle. You seem to be doing well for yourself, so... what reason would you have to do this to someone in keeping them here like this? I mean, you're successful and... young. Surely you wouldn't need to resort to doing something so... inhumane as this just to get to know someone? I just... I don't really understand _what_ you want from me?"

"I told you. I just want for us to get to know each other."

"What? Like _friends_?" I can't help the derision that coats my tongue. "You want us to become friends, because... you are lonely and you don't have any? You want someone to have here that you can talk to, someone who can... understand and feel sorry for all the terrible ordeals you have had to endure as a child? Someone who can listen and.. help you overcome your loneliness? Is that it?" Just like with so many other things, I want to understand him. He just needs to give me a chance to.

"If I wanted someone who could listen to me and help me, Anastasia, then I could easily talk to my therapist." His words are low and sharp. "If that was what I wanted, I could talk to him about that shit when we have our next session."

 _Okay, so he has a therapist that he sees. At least he is trying to get the help he needs. Obviously it isn't helping much though, if he sees its rational to do this to me..._

Just like that, I'm done. I no longer feel up to eating. I feel like I'm going around and around in circles, with trying to give him what he truly wants. All I get, is confusion and cryptic words that never make any sense. It's hopeless.

I push the chair back, getting to my feet. "I'm done. I'm not hungry anymore." Gathering up my plate and cutlery, I dart towards the kitchen, kicking the bin open ready to scoop it into the trash. " _Until_ you can tell me what _it is_ that you _truly_ want from me, then I'm not eating anything."

It seems the perfect tool to bargain with, because as I am just getting ready to scoop my steak, potatoes and peas into the trash, he says suddenly with a tone of urgency from where he remains at the table, "Wait. Just put it in the refrigerator and then you can eat it later or tomorrow when you are hungry."

"No," I snap irritably. "That isn't the way it's going to be. Either you tell me now or I'll-"

"- I just want you to love me, Anastasia." It erupts out of his mouth, so quietly and desperately, that I almost think I have heard wrong. Or well, I _hope_ I have.

"What?" When I spin around on the spot to look at him, the blood draining from my face in shock, I watch as he stands slowly from his chair.

"I just want for you to love me, that's all," he repeats, a bit louder. Obviously it wasn't his intention for it to slip out so suddenly, so readily, because he looks flustered and embarrassed. He sighs loudly, glancing away from me for a second. He lifts a hand, raking his fingers slowly through his hair. I feel like I can't breathe, like I can't move. I'm suffocating. "I know it sounds crazy, but it... its what I _want_. I just want _someone_ to love me for once." He turns his head, facing me. There is something there in his gray eyes. Pleading? Desperation? Fear? "I want _you_ to love me."

So many things rush through my head at once, so many various ways to react. Do I burst out loud laughing in disgust and disbelief? Do I run into the bedroom in horror? What? How is the sensible way to react to something so bat-shit crazy as this?

"So... so that's why you are doing this?" I breathe out tonelessly. I thought I would have been glad to finally know what his intentions were, yet I feel anything but glad. For this to be the reason for him to do this to me... It was not something that came into my mind into being a reason, not at all. Not once. "It isn't just because you want to get to know me, but because you... you _want me_ to try to _love_ you?"

It's the worst possible reason. I may as well just go ahead and die now, because I know I could never love him.

"What? Did you think I would eventually come to love you while you have me prisoner here in your house like this? That I would be able to see you as anything other than... than my kidnapper?"

Oh, God. It is worse than any other reason I could have come up with. He truly _is_ fucked up.

"You know, your mother _was_ right," I say, placing the plate on the sink. I hate the idea of hurting him, of throwing his fears right back into his face. I usually hate being mean, to anyone; Even to the point where I will lie just to make them feel better. But it feels like the only way to get my point across well enough. I may feel like a bitch later for doing it, but its the only way. "You _are_ repulsive, but you know what? It isn't your face that truly makes you repulsive. You're quite... handsome, but even that wouldn't matter. You want to know why?" He doesn't say anything, he simply stares at me bleakly. "It isn't what's _on the outside_ that makes you repulsive, Christian. It's what is _on the inside_ that makes you repulsive. Any man that can do this to a girl in stealing her away and keeping her locked up while seeing there is nothing wrong with what he is doing _is_ repulsive in my view!"

With that said and before I can do anymore damage, saying something else I will majorly regret later, I turn on my heel, stomping up towards the stairs to go back inside the room away from him, my eyes stinging with tears.

 **HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY?**

 **Liking still? Hating? Either way, I would love to know.**  
 **I am not too sure if I will be able to update before Christmas, so Merry Christmas if I don't.**  
 **Hope you have a safe and happy one.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. Just a fan.**

 **Thank you all so much for being so kind and supportive. It means a lot!**

 **I know I said I wasn't going to update until after Christmas more than likely, but I was impatient to. So this will definitely be the last update until after Christmas. With that said, I hope you have a wonderful and safe Christmas.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

 _I just want someone to love me for once..._

 _I want you to love me..._

 _I want for_ you _to love me..._

Those words play over and over in my head like a tape recording on repeat, making it downright impossible for me to sleep. I turn on my back, sighing heavily up at the dark ceiling in my prison.

I just can't seem to get over them. I just cannot believe he said that. So he had told me the reason he had me here wasn't for anything like ransom, or... to murder me even. Not because he likes kidnapping young women and making them suffer like some sick psychopath. But so that I actually could fall in love with him? So that I could begin to like him in _that_ way?

Impossible.

It wasn't what I had expected at all. In fact, that reason never once registered into my mind as a possibility. Maybe it just goes to show how naive I am?

But if he expects me to be able to begin to love him while he keeps me locked up in his place like this then he is sorely mistaken. He is more deluded and insane than I first thought. How can you love someone when they are capable of doing something like this to another human being? Something that takes away your freedom, something that isolates you? Something that takes away all your sense of dignity?

I have such contempt for him inside, so constant that it feels like heartburn. Yet, at the same time, I feel so sorry for him. Sorry for what he has been through; all that abuse and the scars his mother gave him as a child. Yet most abused children don't resort to doing this to another human. They learn how to move on, how to grieve and cope properly. He clearly hasn't, despite him telling me he sees a therapist regularly.

But holy shit, he's keeping me here imprisoned. Can't he see how wrong it is? How inhumane to do this to someone? Or can he not see that at all, because he is so blinded by his own desire to make me fall in love with him?

Could I be capable of loving someone like him, who is keeping me here in his house, refusing to let me leave? I don't know. Probably not.

It wouldn't be real anyway, probably not in the way he is hoping it would be. It would be... what's it called? Stockholm Syndrome? That type of thing. It wouldn't last once I was out in the real world- if he ever even intends to let me out again, of course. I shouldn't get my hopes up that he will ever let me go.

 _God, how did I even get myself into this situation? Where the hell have I seen him before?_

There definitely is a familiarity about him there. We haven't actually met in the real way, obviously. I think I would remember that if we have. But I have seen him before and I do recognize his eyes, his face. And his voice, I recognize his voice somehow too, even though I'm about ninety percent certain we haven't had a conversation shared between each other before.

Have I met him through Kate?

I try to search through my mind frantically, rethinking over the past few weeks.

We had just been studying like crazy in order to pass our finals and to graduate. I would do part time work at Clayton's Hardware, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for me.

About a few months before sitting our finals, I had offered to drive Kate to an interview that took place at a large building in Seattle called Grey Enterprises Holdings. She had to interview this rich guy, the founder and head of the company. She was too anxious so I had to drive there for her. I sat in the waiting room for over ten minutes while she went in to talk to the guy and record his interview for the student newsletter.

What was the guy's name? I know in the car she told me how polite and rather intimidating he was, which was a surprise for me; Kate thinking a guy intimidating for once. Usually she was the one guys were intimidated of, not the other way around. Playing the recording of the interview in the car on the drive back to our apartment, where even I could tell, just by the sound of his voice, that he spoke in a bored and mechanical way, as though it was all well-rehearsed. Like they were questions he often got asked in interviews and he was tired of it all.

As the gears in my head shift and become aligned, all those little dots forming and connecting; I realize now why that voice of his sounds familiar to me. I have heard his voice before, just not directed at me in person.

My heart racing, I sit up against the pillows, gasping in the darkness of the room.

 _He's_ him. Christian. He's _him_ , the guy Kate interviewed for the final student newsletter.

The previous week of our conversations come back to me. He has said he wasn't doing this for monetary reasons, that he had enough to last him for the rest of his life. Could it be right? Could this Christian that is holding me now be the one Kate had interviewed two months ago for the last student newsletter of final semester? This... guy who is the founder and head of Grey Enterprises Holdings?

 _Christian Grey._

Christian. Same first name. Could that be him? Is that who he is or is it purely a coincidence that they have the same first name?

I suppose I should just go downstairs and ask him what his surname is, yet I find I can't be bothered right now. I don't want to be near him tonight; He's managed to piss me off in a very bad way. I'd rather be alone right now than to go downstairs and ask him. If I go downstairs, I'll just start to feel guilty again about what I said to him, that he is repulsive. It was a mean thing to do and I feel like a bitch, but it had to be said. He had to know that, no matter how much it obviously hurt him to have to hear it from me.

It just doesn't make any sense though. Wouldn't he have done this to Kate instead, rather than me? Why would he say we have met over two months ago when it was my best friend Kate that he had met? I know for sure now that I have never talked to him before, so hearing his voice on the recording somewhat explains why I find his voice familiar. That side of it makes sense.

But then how did he know about the books? About Thomas Hardy and Tess?

 _My phone!_

My brain seems to be working extraordinarily well with me tonight for once. He has my phone, no doubt. The one I took with me to the club in my bag, which he obviously kept and still has so I couldn't even think of making the attempt to call someone. There are messages on there, texts and conversations from me and Kate. One I remember in particular, because I haven't deleted all my texts from months ago:

 _What are U doing Ana? Why couldn't U have come with me to the party tonight?_

 _I'm reading._

 _Of course. Why did I bother asking? UR fave? Tess of the d'Urbervilles? I should have known already._

My phone, though. He must have my phone. He must have gotten that information through reading my very own private text messages. How dare he!

It isn't called meeting someone or telling them about your favorite book when you violate their privacy in order to gain that information about them. It is truly no wonder why I can't remember ever telling him about Tess then. He read it. He must have read it from my texts, not from me actually admitting it to him and speaking to him face to face. How dare he go through my text messages and gain that information! Then having the nerve to tell me right there to my face that I told him about loving the book myself!

Really, why does it surprise me?

He is already violating my sense of freewill and freedom in keeping me here against my will. Doing that, in going through my own personal private text messages is a small crime compared to what he is actually doing, in forcing me to stay here like this.

 _How fucking dare he though!_

* * *

I wake up at six the next morning- or so the clock hanging on the wall tells me- though I don't know why. My body just chooses to be alert. I lay around for a few minutes, wishing for sleep to come to me again. Who knows? If I sleep the hours away, maybe I will get out of this hell quicker? Only, it's no good use. Sleep refuses to come to me again, so I sit up, throwing the blankets to the side off of me. Something makes me glance down, and that's when I see it.

I tense, my stomach tightening.

 _Blood._ There is blood between my legs. Staining through my underwear, down the sides of my legs.

When I stand, peering down at the bed-sheets, with horror I see it has even leaked through. Just a small spot, but still enough to make me feel like bursting out crying, feeling sorry for myself.

Great. Even in a stressful situation like this, obviously your body doesn't just shut off and stop functioning, no matter how much you wish you could urge it to. It's like a slap in the face; _I know you are in a traumatic situation right now, so I am going to test you and making it even worse by giving you your period. Enjoy!_

 _Oh, sorry! Just because you've been held against your will in a house, it doesn't mean you'll get a months exemption on your menstrual cycle!_

"You have got to be kidding me," I growl through my teeth helplessly, staring down at the stickiness between my legs again.

Trying to be proactive instead of stressing, I rush over to the dresser, rummaging through them for any sanitary items. I find nothing. No pads or tampons. Just various different clothes that are unnervingly the correct size, like fancy underwear and socks. Hardly caring about covering myself up, I pull open the door, darting straight into the bathroom. My search proves futile as well. There isn't any pads stocked in the bathroom cupboards. There is nothing like that there at all.

But surely he had to know about women and their monthly menstrual cycles right? Doesn't he have any females in his family that would have taught him about all that stuff?

It leaves me with only one choice. One choice to do, which is degrading and embarrassing on all levels. I'll have to ask him to go out to a grocery store to get some. I would prefer not to, but I really have no other choice right now, do I?

I know he is still home, because a few mornings of waking early has made me learn he doesn't leave for work until after seven thirty. Heading downstairs, I look around, hoping to find him. He isn't in the kitchen but as I head towards his bedroom, I see him in there, standing near his walk-in wardrobe.

 _Thank God!_ At least he hasn't left yet, otherwise I would be well and truly screwed...

I clear my throat loudly, bringing his attention to me as he buttons up a white business shirt. He turns immediately on the spot to glance back at me, appearing both strangely... startled and apprehensive, like he wasn't expecting me to be up this early while he is getting ready. I can hardly bring myself to care as I stand there shivering, wet eyed, in nothing but a top and underwear. I am beyond caring. I'm numb.

"You're up earlier than usual, Anastasia?" He remarks, slipping a tie over his neck.

It's degrading. The worst feeling in the world even, in having to ask a man to go out and get me some pads and tampons. But he put me in this situation and I really have no other choice. "Yeah, I... I need you to go to the store before you head to work." I can't even manage looking him in the eye as I say it. Instead, I glance down at my hands, folding them out in front of me, sort of hoping to subtly cover the front of my underwear, the leak and the blood. "There's something I need you to get for me before you go. Something... important."

" _Important_? Like what?" His voice sounds breathless with confusion.

I force myself to glance up at him miserably. He actually looks as though he is having difficulty in understanding just what I am requesting of him, which is ridiculous. His brows are furrowed, his forehead crinkled as he stares at me, waiting for me to spell it out for him. How can a full-grown man not know anything about women's bodies and the natural things they have to go through? Even a man like him should, shouldn't he?

"What? You really don't know?" Angry laughter chokes me. "I need... personal care items. Special... women items. Now do you get it?"

He obviously doesn't. He simply stares at me blankly, blinking slowly.

"Oh my God. You really don't know what I'm trying to say?" I laugh out, feeling the flush of anger roll over me in hot bursts. This is so embarrassing. "I need pads, Christian. Pads or tampons, either one."

Understanding immediately flickers over his face as he nods once, something gentle coming across his face. "Oh, of course. I'll go to the store right now."

"Or you can just take me with you and I'll get the stuff myself?" I ask shakily before I can stop myself. _Wishful thinking much?_

"No, no. It's better if I go by myself." Since he already has his shoes on, he strides out into the kitchen, grabbing something. I follow after him as he heads towards the elevator, swiping one of the key cards in it. "I'll be back in just a second. Is there anything else you need as well? Tylenol?"

"How about you letting me out of here?" I retort bitterly once the doors open. "I mean, I've been here long enough, haven't I? A week already?"

I have an impulse to get into the elevator, to scurry in there. Only my chance is gone. A second's hesitation is a second too much. He says nothing in response to my words. I just watch his face as the doors close. He glances down at the wallet he is holding in his hands, as though looking at me may be too much for him right now. And then, he's gone. Vanished, riding down the elevator to a lower floor.

 _Asshole. Why can't he just let me leave?_

I don't bother waiting for him to come back. Instead, I make myself busy in heading upstairs, yanking the stained bed-sheet off. I have no idea where clean ones are to replace it with or where he puts his dirty laundry so I leave it there on the floor in a messy pile until he arrives back to tell me. When he does eventually get back, he comes up to the room, knocking on the wall outside the room before entering to give me warning that he has returned, I guess.

When I glance back at him, I see he is carrying two grocery bags.

"I didn't know which ones you prefer," he says, sounding strained. He places both bags on the floor, lifting a hand to scratch his forehead with his fingers in a stressed way. "I just got every different one I saw. Hopefully they _are_ right though."

When I come closer to peer inside the plastic bags, I realize he has two bags completely full of both pads and tampons. Different brands, different sizes; Regular, overnights. He still won't meet my gaze, I realize; I think he's too embarrassed.

"That's a lot?" I breathe in shock. "Don't you think you've gone a bit overboard? All of these could last me about twelve months." As soon as I senselessly say it, I realize my mistake. My stomach sinks, a heavy feeling of despair there. _Holy shit. Does he expect me to be here for that long? A whole long year?_

No, no. He can't keep me here for a whole year. I'll die if he expects me to stay here for that long.

Thinking about that really isn't helping. I shouldn't think about it. Anything, but that, otherwise I'll get too depressed.

"Also, I'll need to do some laundry," I say hesitatingly. "I have some stuff I'll need to wash. Like the bed-sheets."

"That's fine, Anastasia. I can always do that when I-"

"-No, you _won't_ ," I burst out, a lot harsher than intended. "I don't want you doing my laundry for me, Christian. I want some dignity left, and I think I have a right to wash _my own_ blood stained sheets!"

He recoils from me, glancing down at his hands. "All right," he says quietly, stunned by my outburst. "Of course you can wash your own sheets. You can do whatever you like, Anastasia."

"Except _leave_? Then why can't I do that, too?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, his head falling downwards towards his chest. He knows this is wrong, he has to. I can tell. He is obviously just as miserable as I am right now, so why can't he just let me go?

His eyes reopen but he doesn't return them to me. He fixes on a spot on his shoes, gritting his teeth, like he is steeling himself mentally. The tendons in his jaw twitches. "There's a room downstairs where I do laundry. You'll know which room it is once you get in there because it has a washing machine and a dryer. You can't miss it."

"You'll go to jail for this, Christian," I mutter furiously through my teeth. "You know that, don't you? Kidnap is a serious crime. You'll go to jail for years."

I may as well be talking to a deaf man. He shows no outwards sign of fear over that reality. His face is composed and closed-off.

"I don't want that for you, despite what you are doing to me," I try again desperately, trying to get some reaction out of him, some form of pity. "I can see you are a very... sad and lonely person and in some ways, I _do_ feel sorry for you. What your mother did to you, it was... terrible and no child should ever go through that." I step closer towards him, despite every fiber of my being telling me to stay away, to retreat. "I'm _so sorry_ that she did that to you, but if you really think you can use your childhood as an excuse for what you are doing to me, then... then it's _bullshit_ , Christian!"

His mouth parts and I think he is about to say something to me. Only it doesn't come. He is forcing himself to keep quiet, to not say anything.

"What you said, last night, about wanting me to love you, it won't happen." Finally, he glances up, meeting my gaze. He looks all things at once as his eyes scan my face. Apprehensive. Fearful. Conflicted. "Not in here, _never_ while you have me here."

He opens his mouth, about to say something, only he stops himself again. He compresses his lips into a thin line, glancing away for a second, giving his head a shake. When he meets my eyes again, he isn't emotionless this time around. There is anger there blaring in his gray eyes, in the way his mouth tightens, way his eyes bunch up at the corners. I hear him swallow loudly as I wait desperately. I need for him to say it. I need for him to say that he knows and that he'll let me go free. Now.

"I'm not going to apologize for what I said last night, about me finding you repulsive. Because I do, but not due to the way you look, or because of the... the scars on your body." I'm like a hen, picking and picking, regardless of whatever consequences it will bring. "It's your actions that make you repulsive, Christian. The fact that you can keep me here like this while ignoring my requests for you to let me go. I _can't love_ a man who can be perfectly fine in doing this to another human being. It's just... it's something I can _never_ do, so you have already failed there, because I _can't_ -"

"- You're _not even_ trying!" At last, he speaks. I can tell he is trying to reign his temper in. It's in the way his body trembles, the way he goes to such effort to keep his voice low. "You aren't even trying to give it a chance. I want for us to get to know each other and yet, you are always saying this and saying that, about me letting you go!"

"Then what can I do, Christian? What can I do?" I come closer, standing so near that our bodies are almost touching. I hardly care that I am invading his personal space or that its a risky move. I have no idea what he is going to do, what he will do, but I need him to be honest with me. I need to know.

Using another tactic in all my desperation, my hands spring out before I am fully conscious of what I am doing. I catch his face between my hands, clasping tightly with my fingers, even when he tries to pull back, to get free. When he sees its hopeless and that I have no intentions to stop holding his face between my hands anytime soon, his eyes clench closed and a sharp intake of breath leaves him, his breathing low and ragged.

I see the disgust in his expression, the fear, yet I don't know if its me touching him that he is disgusted by or the fact that anyone is bothering to touch him in general.

"What, you don't like me touching you?" I squeeze out between clenched teeth in confusion. "I thought you said that you wanted me to-"

"-Don't touch me." His voice is a soft whisper, a plead. "I'm not worthy of that yet."

 _He's not worthy of that yet?_ "Your not worthy of what?"

"You... you wouldn't understand." He takes in a deep inhale through his nostrils, going still, rigid.

"So _let me_ understand! _Anything_ it takes!"

Startling me, his hands curl around each of my wrists, squeezing down tight. He tries to move my hands away, to shove me back, but with all my might, I don't budge. Moving my hand, I run my fingers down the side of his jaw, feeling hot skin, wiry stubble.

"What? You think you aren't worthy of a compassionate, gentle touch because of the way your mother treated you?" I think that's it. That's clearly it. "You say you want me to love you _and yet_ you can't even accept the slightest touch?"

I lean up on tiptoes, enough to press my mouth against his, our noses touching. He makes a deep and throaty noise, protesting.

It's hot and awkward, because he is obviously resistant. The stubble around his lips scratch at my skin as we both breathe heavily. I don't even know what has gotten into me. I suppose I'm doing it, because I haven't tried it as yet, and I want him to let me go. Like in a fairy-tale, I guess. Kiss the frog, and it turns into a handsome prince. Kiss the damaged man and he'll see enough sense to let you go, showing his compassionate side.

His fingers tighten over my wrists bruisingly to the point of pain and then we're stumbling backwards, my back colliding roughly with the wall as he pins me against it with my arms above my head, shoving his face away from me into his shoulder so I can see nothing but his hair. One leg is between mine, his shoe just narrowly avoiding clomping over my bare toes.

Everything is silent and strange for about a minute. All I hear is him breathing loudly, his face turned away from me as he uses all his body weight to keep me pinned to the wall. He lifts his head to meet my gaze, so close over me that our faces are almost touching, something similar to excitement and arousal there in his eyes. Sucking in a deep, shaky breath, his frenzied eyes drift downwards before running up over my face again. He likes this. He _actually_ likes this; Dominance and control, having me restrained with all his body weight to the point where I cannot move the slightest bit because he is so heavy and strong. Then he makes another noise, a guttural one that sounds like he is on the verge of crying. It wrenches at my gut.

"I... I told you I'm not worthy yet, Anastasia," he pants quietly, releasing my wrists. He moves away in a slow and drained way, like he is exhausted, careful not to show anything but his back to me.

My legs giving way, I slide down the wall, watching as he retreats slowly out of the room, sniffling loudly.

Then I'm alone again.

 **HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY? I am so nervous about this one.**

 **Thank you so much for being so kind and for the alerts I have received. I honestly didn't expect that. :) Don't worry, Christian will make the ultimate good act towards Ana eventually. We just have a couple of more chapters to get to it, if you don't mind waiting?**  
 **Hoping you have an amazing Christmas and New years!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades.**

 **I've done it again, and I'm sorry haha! I just can't keep away from writing, even between getting ready for Christmas! Hope you enjoy this one, and thank you so much for being so kind!**

 **Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays again (for the third time LOL)! Love you guys!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE**

While Christian is away at work again and I'm alone in the penthouse, I get a much needed distraction in showering to wash away all the blood. Once I'm done and everything has been taken care of, I dress into a fresh change of the clothes his driver Taylor got for me. I pick up my dirty underwear, clothes, and the soiled sheets and carry them all downstairs, finding the room he talked about with the dryer and washing machine to do laundry first go.

As I get my first load of washing under way, suddenly a fresh and previously unthought of course of action comes to me, literally out of nowhere. I realize he is right; In what he said about me not trying to even comply and get to know him. I have been thinking and talking mostly about him letting me go, like he said. I've been far too confrontational, which really, is a little hard not to be when he is doing this to me, putting me in this completely unwanted situation.

Nothing I do or say will ever make him let me go. I learned that the hard way by telling him I find him repulsive due to his actions, to no avail. Obviously I am going to have to try another tactic instead.

Christian wants us to get to know each other. He wants me to eventually come to love him. I find it impossible under such forced circumstances, but evidently I am not trying hard enough. We just seem to be going around and around in circles, so perhaps I need to change my game a little?

He hasn't hurt me badly which is something I ought to be grateful for. He hasn't forced himself onto me or done anything violent to me as yet. I have mostly been the aggressive one towards him with all my slaps and shouts, yet he hasn't so much as raised a finger back at me in retaliation. Maybe I could pretend to like him, if not be nicer and more cooperative with him? Maybe I'll be let out quicker if I act convincing enough, making him assume I have become fond of him?

It's going to be hard work but I'm obviously going to have to stop mentioning about Christian letting me go. It's not working, and he won't give me a definitive answer anyway, no matter how forceful I am with getting an answer out of him. It only just serves to frustrate him. So, from this point forward, I make a vow to myself to stop asking or even so much as mentioning about him letting me go if I can help it. It's just difficult not to bring the subject up when literally every minute is spent with my mind dwelling on being let out of his penthouse, wondering if I will ever get the chance to see my family or Kate ever again.

I need to stop it, though. _From this point onward mentioning about being released will be a definite no-go zone for me.._.

I'll try to be nicer and to seem more interested in him, as a person. I'll try to keep my cool and not shout at him, seeing as I have learned now that shouting gets me nowhere when it comes to him.

I'll just have to remember to be casual about it and do it in stages so he can't realize I'm just doing it on purpose to suck up to him. I can't just have a sudden heart change and act nice and fond of him when so far I've been so argumentative and forceful with him. It has to be gradual and seem natural to him.

I need to get him to believe somehow that, no matter what happens, if he does end up letting me out of his penthouse, that I'll still be willing to stick around, that I have warmed up to him that profoundly and that not even my freedom could ever change that. It's going to be difficult though. I have always been a terrible actress. I hate lying, and Kate always used to say I was really bad at it. My parents, too.

I've just got to do it though. It's the only way I can see myself getting out of here now. If I do it really well so it seems natural and not contrived, then it may very well be the only solution I have to actually get out of here once and for all.

I'm going to have to take my time and convince Christian really well that his plan in keeping me here in order to make me begin to fall in love with him is working.

* * *

Before he gets home from work, I change into one of the dresses he has provided for me. It's a violet, V-necked zip-up dress with short-sleeves that seems to fit unnervingly well and goes well with my pale skin. It reaches just below my knees and its fabric feels comfortable and light, making for easy movement around the kitchen while I prepare tonight's dinner. I keep my long hair out but since he hasn't given me any make-up I am forced to make do with how I am.

I feel more at ease now that Christian had gone and brought me pads to use for my period. It means there is one less thing to worry about; Leakages and all those other annoying things that come along with having your monthly flow.

When he finally arrives in, I can tell he is pleased as always over me making dinner. It's like he wants this all along; Someone to come home to, like I'm a trained, dutiful housewife who is there to stay home all day and cater to nothing else but her man's needs.

With my plans from this morning at the center of my mind, things seem to go well. I remain polite and manage to hold my tongue while we sit down at the table to eat dinner. I'm the furthest thing from relaxed; I feel tense and anxious, which is how I think I am supposed to be. However, I also try to be somewhat seductive and alluring in small doses.

I try to act interested, like I am hanging off every little thing he says. When he thanks me for dinner and shows his gratitude, I try to act flattered and humbled by his approval. Throughout the years I have been complimented on my eyes and the color of them- though, personally I feel they are too wide- but I use them to my advantage in staring at him in a demure sort of way. Sometimes I'll catch his gaze and smile, a tight-lipped shy one through the unbearable silence, despite the constant anxious churning of my stomach.

I'm determined to make it seem gradual and not contrived, though. I only be mindful to do little things, acting in a way he'll find believable. Things I think he'll find arousing or pleasing to see.

When I stretch out with my hand to lift my glass of water up to my lips, I take a sip while staring directly into his eyes, then I lower the glass back down onto the table while licking them in a slow and deliberate way. Then still holding his gaze, I lift both hands up, sweeping all of my hair up in them to swipe it over to one side of my shoulder so that he can get a good glimpse of my throat and collarbone.

I have no idea if its working or not, my plan; His face remains unreadable all throughout. It's only when we've both finished our dinner- well, me only a quarter of it because my appetite has been crappy ever since he has done this to me- that he rests both elbows on the table, tilting his head to the side as he stares at me speculatively. I have no idea what he is thinking at all, which makes it equally as disturbing as the way he is staring at me, so intently, with dilated pupils overriding the grey irises.

"I hope you enjoyed tonight's meal?" I ask, trying to sound lighthearted. My voice fails on me; It's too tremulous, only he doesn't seem to notice.

"Yes, I did. Thank you."

I try to think of a topic safe to talk about, but its hard to judge. So I just end up settling on the few key things I need answers to. Aside from talking about anything regarding him releasing me, of course. "When you said we met two months ago, we hadn't actually met in person, had we?" He sighs loudly, resting the side of his face on a hand. "My best friend Kate interviewed you for the final student newsletter. You're Christian Grey, aren't you? The founder and chief executive officer of Grey Enterprises Holdings?"

He stares at me wordlessly, but his eyes widen in alarm. I think I see him even redden slightly underneath the light beard. I'll take that as a confirmation.

"How did you-" he begins in a panicked whisper.

"Kate replayed the recordings on the drive home in the car. I thought you seemed somehow familiar to me, your voice especially. The tone and the way it sounded when you spoke and pronounced certain things. It's amazing how you can recognize someone simply by the sound of their voice, isn't it? It didn't really fully come to me until last night when I thought it over."

Christian's eyebrows furrow, his forehead crinkling. He obviously doesn't find it as amazing as I do. In fact, he seems to be worried over the fact that I now recognize him. _Why should it matter though? Why should it make any difference, the fact that I do now recognize just who he is?_

"You were there at the club that night when I went out with Kate to celebrate graduating?" I ask, just to be certain though I think I already know the answer to that. He had to have been there as well, otherwise how else could I have ended up here? How else could he have taken me and brought me back here?

"Yes," he confesses, his voice barely audible. "I was there."

I feel a sudden lightness in my chest. "And did we talk then? Did you come approach me? For some reason, I don't think you did. My minds a bit... blurry over the events of that night, but what I do remember is you not approaching me to talk?" Or perhaps maybe he did and I was that out of it from the alcohol?

"I didn't approach you, no," he confirms quietly. "I felt too... nervous somehow."

"Why is my memory so vague of the following hours after leaving the club? I don't remember heading outside or anything at all so why is that?" I ask him. "There's just a... a blank spot there. Why can't I remember how I got here? Did you drug me or do something to me?" It startles me how calmly I can seem to ask about being drugged by him. He, on the other hand, looks deeply insulted in contrast.

"Is that what you think?" he asks in a low voice. "That I drugged you and brought you back here, Anastasia?"

"Well, _did_ you?"

"Of course not." He scoffs out loud. "I told you. Hurting you isn't my intentions."

Yes, he is definitely wounded that I could think such a thing of him. I don't know whether to take him at face-value or not.

I change subject. "We hadn't met before like you had originally said though. It was Kate that interviewed you. So why me? You said that I told you about the _Tess_ books but obviously I didn't, did I?"

He sighs loudly, unhappy over having to answer, I guess. "You didn't, yes. That's right."

"So how did you know about me loving Thomas Hardy's work?" I ask, although I know how already. He had to have gone through my phone. He just had to. "Did you read those messages on my phone to get that information? Is that how you knew?"

I try to watch his face carefully for any telling expression, but he keeps himself admirably composed. I think I see a little exasperation there though. "I have your phone, yes. I... I read it on one of your text messages." He doesn't sound too proud to have to admit that to me. He averts my gaze for a moment.

I ought to feel angry about that, yet I don't. I think I had accepted it and come to terms with that possibility last night. "So the question remains... why did you choose me?"

He hesitates, maybe even anxious to answer that question directly. He lifts his head fractionally, shoving his hand under his chin, stroking around his upper lip with his forefinger for a moment. "I saw you waiting in the chair with her when I came back to bring your friend in for the interview."

"Okay, but... that doesn't really explain why you chose me?"

"I chose you, Anastasia, because... I _knew_ you were different from all the others out there."

"All the others?"

"All the other women in the world," he explains curtly.

"But that's a huge assumption to make, especially towards someone you haven't met before? How would you even know whether I'm different or not?" I throw at him. "You don't know me."

I've stumped him with that one. It seems to take him a long time to properly find an adequate answer. "I just... I _knew_. An intuition, a... gut feeling." He shrugs, thinking it over seriously for a second. "With some women, you can just tell simply by looking at them."

"So why me? Why not Kate even? I mean, you _talked_ to her? You actually _met_ her?"

Irritation passes through his eyes as he tongues around the corner of his mouth. "I know the type of girl your friend is. The instance I so much as even looked at her, I knew the type of girl she was."

"Which is?"

"Nothing more than a shallow, superficial bitch. Even with the way she dressed and presented herself, I knew." I feel that same old anger creep up inside of me, though I try to tame it down, reminding myself sternly of my plans. _But how dare he insult my best friend!_ "I knew _you_ were different the moment I saw you waiting outside in the chair with her. Even simply due to the way you dressed, I knew. I _knew_ you were the one."

While he is being somewhat forthcoming for once, I still can't understand. "The one for _what_ , Christian?"

"You _know_ what for. Just because you associate with her, you aren't like her. You aren't like most of them."

"What aren't I like?" I breathe out.

"A superficial, shallow bitch like she is. I knew you were the one, which was why I wanted you so badly. I knew you were the one that would be able to look past _this._ " At that, he uncurls his fingers out from a fist, motioning to his face, something similar to shame forming in his expression. "You aren't like all the rest. You aren't... shallow or superficial."

"You don't even know Kate like I do." It bursts out of my mouth before I am able to stop myself. I can't help it. I feel a compulsion to defend my friend. "She isn't any of that. She isn't superficial or anything like that at all. She's a... a really good person."

"Well, I suppose you and I have different judgement of character then, don't we?"

"You are _completely_ wrong about Kate. I find it really mean of you to say that about her, to judge her unfairly like that without even knowing her." I told myself I wouldn't do it. I would try to get along with him, and be nice. Put my plan into action, and yet, here I am, already screwing it up. He can just be so frustrating sometimes. Taking in a deep breath, I make a conscious decision to steer our topic back to more innocuous ground. "So have you seen me anywhere else other than when I was waiting outside while Kate interviewed you?"

"I came by the hardware store where you worked one time. Clayton's. I was... curious."

I try to think back on that, though I don't actually recall seeing him there. There are so many customers we get in on a day to day basis, so many different faces. "And did we talk?"

"Not exactly. You were stacking the shelves with stock, and I followed you." He pauses from rubbing his chin with his fingers, his expression warming slightly. His eyes go strangely distanced and glazed- like he is replaying that moment in his head again. "I walked up behind you and you didn't notice me at first. But then you just turned around and apologized, because you assumed you were in the way of me getting something off the shelf."

I still don't recall that happening, but I assume he's being sincere. After all, I don't think he would have any reason to lie about that. It wouldn't make any sense for him to lie. "So if you wanted to get to know me that badly, then why not talk to me at Clayton's? Why not ask me out for coffee or something?"

Christian seems to come back down to earth, blinking slowly at me. "It's like I told you. You wouldn't have agreed to go out to coffee with me anyway. But you were the... first woman to look at me as though I was an actual human being and not a piece of shit," he mutters after a second. "It made it all so very clear then. I _knew_ I had to have you in that moment."

I try to appear understanding and sympathetic, yet I can't help how uneasy he makes me feel. "How do you know people think you are nothing more than... than a piece of shit? Surely they don't think that at all?"

"Oh, but they do," he says, sounding very confident on that. "I can tell they do. In the way they all look at me, the way they... stare. It's like they know automatically by looking at me, like everyone else are... bloodhounds on the scent. They must... smell it on me."

"Smell _what_ on you?" I ask gently, uncomprehending.

He glances away from me for a moment, sighing heavily through his nose. Whatever it is, it seems he is having difficulty vocalizing it. He meets my gaze again as he says reluctantly, "That I'm the type of guy that even his own mother couldn't bring herself to love." He sounds so forlorn, so sad, that it makes an entirely uncomfortable squeezing sensation in my chest.

"Just... just because you think your mother didn't love you doesn't mean that all is lost in the world and that you won't find someone who eventually _will_ love you. You just have a..." I falter, deciding it isn't appropriate to say because I know it could potentially get him angry.

Only he catches on. "I just have _what_ , Anastasia?" He prompts impatiently. "Say what you were going to say."

I cringe, hesitating. _God, will this ruin everything?_

"It's your self-image and the way you feel about yourself," I say as carefully and as gently as possible. "Obviously what your mother did has affected you that badly that you're so... so negative about the way you perceive yourself. You think you are unlovable or are unworthy because she instilled that self perception into you as a child and with the way she treated you. You think people stare at you in a harsh way, but maybe they aren't thinking anything critical about you at all? Maybe they are just having a bad day and don't notice the way they are looking at you?"

It doesn't seem as though I have put my foot in it, thank goodness. He stares at me, his eyes narrowed in deep contemplation for a long moment. "No, I know its what they see when they look at me. It's why they all stare and look a certain way. It's because they find me repulsive." He sounds so certain of that, which is heartbreaking.

"Is that what you think?" I shake my head. "That you are repulsive to everyone around you?"

"Not just to _everyone else_ around me," he states vehemently, patting a hand against his chest. "But to _myself as well_. I _know_ that's what I am."

I realize how much he hates himself, how far that self-loathing goes. I guess any child growing up being abused by their very own mother and constantly treated like dirt would find it easier to hate themselves than to start being kinder to themselves. But hadn't he told me he was seeing a therapist? Surely they would work on getting him to be a bit more kinder to himself, right?

"I think that... everything is distorted to you," I say, looking in his eyes to let him know I'm being honest. He stares back at me in that intense way, barely blinking, his eyes shining with doubt, with apprehension. "You see yourself differently than how other people see you. _I_ certainly see you different than the way you see yourself."

"But you told me how you see me? You said I _was_ repulsive and that my mother was right?"

Oh, shit. So I did say that, but it was mainly in the heat of anger. I _do_ find him repulsive due to what he is capable of doing by holding me here in his house, ignoring all my pleads to be let out, but... not repulsive in the way he thinks he is.

"I didn't quite... mean it that way," I say slowly, trying to think of a way to get myself out of the mess I've made with that remark. "I was angry and frustrated that you weren't listening to me about letting me go, so I... I lashed out. Looking at you, I don't... find you repulsive at all. I'm sure _many_ others don't see that when they look at you. You should try to be a bit more kinder to yourself."

"So what? You don't find me repulsive then?" He sounds surprised. And slightly doubtful.

"No, I find you to be quite... handsome. It's just... what you are doing to me that makes me feel otherwise."

I can't meet his eyes. I don't want him to think that its me excusing what he is doing to me, because I think that. When I muster up enough courage to glance at him again, I see his lips are tightly pressed together. He's suppressing a smile, I think. He's relieved that I think that, like my opinion means that much to him. I feel a flush of heat hit my cheeks as I try to find something else to talk about. Funnily enough, the first thing I come up with is something I am unsure will upset him if I do ask about it. I find myself curious about it, though.

"That scar under your chin," I start gently, hoping not to offend him. "I don't think you told me how you got it? Or was it from... from _her_ , too?"

To my relief Christian doesn't seem to mind me asking. He sits up straighter in the chair, leaning over the table towards me. "No, it was the only scar I got that _she_ didn't give me, Anastasia."

"So _how_?" I prompt, my voice shaking for some reason that I am not totally sure of.

He sighs loudly, his fingers going beneath his chin, his thumb and forefinger tracing the scar himself through the facial hair that almost covers it. "I got glassed by some asshole at a bar one night. I went through a... a rebellious and self-destructive stage for awhile there. I was around twenty two, I think. I went out with my brother for a few drinks and I got into a fight with this guy. We had just argued and I had turned around for one second, then next thing I knew, he was smashing a glass over my throat."

I don't need to pretend to be horrified, because I truly am. There is no need to act when it comes to this. "Someone glassed you in a club?"

"Yes, they did. I required eight stitches. Obviously the scar hasn't faded though. I think it will always be there for the rest of my life."

I nod sympathetically, wincing. I can only just imagine it; All the blood running down his throat, the gash that they would have had to stitch up at the hospital. "It must have been very painful?"

"Not as much as how painful it was to endure what I did with the burns on my back as a child," he explains with a shrug. "Getting glassed and cut on the throat was surprisingly less painful than anything of what my mother did to me all those years before." He seems rather content talking to me about it.

I hope this is what he wants; For us to talk, for him to feel we are getting closer on a more intimate level. And, in some way, I can't deny that he does fascinate me.

"You've been through a lot then, haven't you?" I observe sadly. "With what happened when you were a child, and then that with getting glassed, too. Does it still hurt?"

"The scar beneath my chin doesn't. Neither does any of the other scars. The scars are just... _there_. It's just my back sometimes, the... the skin."

"It still hurts where your skin got scolded from the shower?"

"Not exactly. It doesn't hurt exactly. It just gets... uncomfortable when my clothes rub against it, my shirts. The fabric irritates it when I move and especially on humid days, it gets itchy. And when I'm cold, I feel it first on my back. It's more... sensitive there than in other places."

"I'm... I'm sorry." I have no idea what to say in response to that, but apologizing seems to be the right thing to say. "Is that why you insist on the facial hair? Because it covers the scar on your chin?"

"I like it better that way, definitely." He compresses his lips into a tight line, suppressing another smile. "I don't like looking at the scars so I assume other people won't like looking at it much either."

"Well, I think you'd look better without it," I mutter before I can stop myself. _God, what the hell am I doing? Why am I giving him advice on what would make him look better?_ "You'd look more... clean-cut without the beard and it would show all your facial features better. You won't look so... rugged then."

"What?" Amusement gleams in his grey eyes. "You aren't a fan of facial hair? You would prefer me to shave it all off?"

"Yeah, I think its definitely safe to say that I am not a fan of facial hair. I think I prefer men that are clean shaven." I force myself to laugh, like we're two friends having a hilarious conversation. "I definitely recommend you shave it off someday soon."

He nods once, his expression grave. "Tomorrow then. I'll shave it off tomorrow morning if that's what you would like?"

I feel my heart stop in my chest for one single second, unnerved by how eager he seems to be to impress me or to at least obey my advice. It's like he takes my opinion so seriously. While its flattering that he seems to want to impress me that much or to at least show me how much he respects and honors my opinions on the matter, it's also slightly disturbing too.

"Okay. Do it tomorrow then."

"I will." His eyes burn into mine with intensity as he blinks slowly. " _Anything_ for you."

 _Jesus Christ. Anything for me?_

I lick my lips, moistening them, then bite and pull at my bottom lip with my teeth, aware of the way his eyes seem to watch the movement. I think that he is definitely attracted to me. It's a part of why he has done this to begin with. I can see it in the way his expression changes and darkens, like he is entranced by my tongue and my lips; The way I bite my lip especially. While I know he said he has me here because he wants me to love him, but... is he infatuated with me? Sexually attracted to me even? Will he expect sex from me soon too?

He obviously has some sort of resentment and negativity towards women because he feels they look at him in a particular way, judging him. He sees most to be superficial, yet he sees something different in me. I am not even so sure if he's right on what he believes about me; I know I try not to judge people, especially by their own physical appearance.

But I think I have really done enough for one night. It's draining, trying to act friendly and not as intimated or afraid as I constantly seem to be feeling in his presence. I stand, collecting my plate, getting ready to wash up. He stands as well, gathering his own empty plate to carry over towards the sink.

I'm just getting started on doing usual protocol in running hot water into the sink to wash up, when I think I hear him say something behind me.

"I want you to sleep with me tonight, Anastasia."

It comes out so quiet and hesitant that I begin to suspect I've misheard him or have only just imagined it. Only when I turn to grab his plate off him, I realize otherwise; He's staring at me, politely but also expectantly like he is waiting for me to answer back.

I find it next to impossible to breathe as a shudder ripples through me. It feels like my heart has started pounding mercilessly fast in my chest, weighed down heavy with dread. _Oh, God. Please no. Please tell me that I have misunderstood what he just said. Please, oh, please!_

"What did you just say, Christian?" I squeak out, hardly caring how strangled the question comes out from the sudden constriction of my throat.

"I want you to sleep with me in my bed tonight," Christian repeats, louder and clearer so that I know I'm not in any way mistaken. The tone in his voice tells me that there is no compromising on the matter. He wants this, and he wants it tonight, no matter what I say or do.

 _Oh, fuck._ Why am I so surprised though? I had a small suspicion there that this would happen eventually. I had just hoped it wouldn't be on a night like tonight.

"Like sex?" I have to ask, though it frightens me to learn the answer to that. I avoid his direction, plunging my hands into the soapy water to start washing up from our dinner instead. "You want us to have sex in your bed tonight, Christian?" Then I remember about my little issue this morning. It makes my heart seize with hope. "We can't really do that. I have my period and its bound to be messy. You probably wouldn't want that, would you?"

 _Please say no. Please say no._ I have never even had sex before, and it makes it all the more terrifying to imagine myself having my first time with someone like him.

"No, I never meant it like that. I just meant sleeping together in the same bed. Besides, I think its time, don't you?"

He thinks its time? Meaning what? Or had he planned it to go this way all along? To eventually get me settled in before he starts ordering me to sleep next to him in the same bed? And then what? What's next? After a week of sharing the same bed, will he eventually start demanding we get to the next level?

"It's already been a week and a half." _Yeah, like I need the reminder..._

As far as I can tell, he doesn't want sex or anything yet. He just wants us to lie in the same bed and sleep. It couldn't be so hard, could it? If that's just what he wants? I don't know how I am going to manage laying in the same bed next to him. I won't be getting a decent nights worth of sleep in, that's for sure. But just to sleep beside him? It will be manageable, so long as he keeps his hands to himself.

"Okay then, Christian. I'll just finish this and then we'll get ready to go to bed."

I take longer than usual to finish washing and drying up; a deliberate move on my part to delay what is inevitably about to happen once I'm done. He leaves me alone, heading into his bedroom to get ready for bed. Once I realize I can't hold it off any longer, I flick off the light in the kitchen, hesitating before approaching his bedroom door.

The door is wide open with light spilling through from the lamp. I really don't want to do it, but obviously I have no say in what will happen and what won't. I feel like I want to curl up into a little ball once I step inside the room, finding the sheets on his bed pulled halfway down on the right side. Then Christian steps out from his walk-in wardrobe, barefooted, startling me.

He's wearing black boxers and little else, his entire body pale and toned. The scars from his childhood mar his body, but as shameful as it is for me to think it, they don't detract. At least he isn't naked where it counts the most- with dark hair trailing down from his belly button towards it- but still, it doesn't make me feel any better. When I force myself to meet his gaze, I find he is staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face. I think he's almost nervous.

His eyes roam down the dress I'm wearing slowly, then he looks away towards the bed with effort. He lifts an arm to rake his fingers through his hair, his biceps elongating with the movement. "Take off your clothes and let's get into bed, Anastasia." It's most definitely an order. There is no gentleness in his tone, no anything.

I turn my back on him before moving a hand behind my back to unzip my dress because looking at him right now seems too intolerable. My fingers fumble against the zipper because I'm shaking that badly, but after a third or forth attempt, I succeed in yanking it down. I inhale in deeply through my nose as I stare at a spot on the ground, forcing myself to keep calm when all I really want to do is run far, far away.

 _But it's only for sleeping,_ I remind myself. _It's only for sleeping, not anything else. You'll be fine._

I pull my arms out of the sleeves, letting the dress fall to the floor in a pool before stepping out of it with unsteady feet. The worst part comes next; Removing my bra, baring myself to the first man I have ever done to before. Already, I feel so exposed and cold. I'm shivering, my skin lined with goose pimples.

I'm just dragging one of the straps on my bra down over my shoulder when he suddenly makes a noise from behind me. His hands come onto each of my shoulders unexpectedly, gripping firmly with his fingers. The petrified noise escapes my mouth before I can stop it and its like an earthquake is shaking me from head to toe at his touch.

"Leave it on," he says softly, and I close my eyes tight to drown it out when he hooks my bra strap around his forefinger, bringing it back up again with roughness. "I told you that I wanted us to sleep in bed together, that's all." It's like I'm a baby he is trying to soothe. "You don't need to remove all your clothes, Anastasia. I just want to know what its like to sleep next to somebody for once."

I still don't know whether to believe him, but I seem to breathe easier when he moves away, letting his warm fingers brush and slide off my shoulders gently. I hear him move away and once I glance behind my shoulder, I see his back is facing me as he pulls the blankets down even more, getting ready to slip in. The light from the lamp seems to make the scarring on his back strangely purple and black in appearance. I realize the scars even extend all the way down to his calves, probably from the way the scolding hot water hit him.

He lets out a relaxed sigh once he slides in and he turns on his side, holding the blankets open for me as he peers over at me. "Get in. It's warmer in here."

I hesitate before darting towards the bed, sitting down on the mattress before bracing myself. I lift up with my legs, swiveling them under the blankets, and then he's bringing them down, letting them cover me. The sigh of relief of my own due to the immediate warmth is interrupted when the mattress lurches. My breath gets stuck in my throat when he presses up right behind me with his body, his chest brushing against my bare shoulders, the lightly dusted hair there tickling me.

 _Heaven help me._

I stiffen against the mattress when Christian drapes one muscular arm around me, shifting his head over so that he is using the same pillow as I am. I feel his breaths making the hair on the back of my head fly around, and he makes a soft moaning noise, a grunt. Then I feel him bend down, touching the curve of my shoulder with his scratchy chin, snuggling in real close to me.

"You warm enough?" he breathes hoarsely into my skin.

"Yes, I am, Christian," I whisper tonelessly, moisture gathering around my eyes.

I keep my eyes wide open, waiting for the minute he does something; Waiting to feel him move and try to touch me, only it doesn't seem to come. He must have meant what he said; About us simply sleeping, and nothing more. It relieves me to no end.

The light clicks off suddenly, immersing the pair of us into pitch-black darkness, and though I didn't think it was possible, the tension starts to gradually leave my bones and I begin to feel sleepy and relaxed. Sleepy, relaxed and, most of all, completely warm and content due to his body heat combining with mine, our feet intermingled.

I never thought it possible, but it dawns onto me that sleeping next to someone else- even _him_ \- is more enjoyable and comforting than I thought. But what the hell is wrong with me? How can I enjoy lying next to him in bed?

 **This is definitely the last update I can manage for now, but I hope you enjoyed it :) Is it too creepy/crazy? Christian is basically how he was in the books, where people do stare at him/regard him as handsome and attractive. He's just believed he is repulsive and assumes the staring is due to it. He's also been frightened to let someone see him without clothes on because of the scars on his body, despite letting Ana in and showing himself to her. Sorry if its creepy. I guess I have a tendency of liking to write/read/watch creepy things. :)**

 **I also wish you a wonderful Christmas and Happy Holidays. (I know, I said it again haha.)**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you so much for being so kind. I am always so shocked and blown away. Thank you for being so lovely, each and every one of you!**

 **Hope you enjoy this one :)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Something wakes me up from a deep sleep, though I'm not sure what at first. My eyes pop open suddenly, and I feel warm and flushed in the satin purple sheets wrapped around me. Blue light seeps in through the curtained windows, telling me its probably in the early morning hours. Five thirty. Or six in the morning, even.

I turn on my side, stretching out. That's when I see him sleeping in the bed beside me on his back, the sheets covering half of his chest, one arm slung protectively over his face. I can hear him inhaling and exhaling in short, distressed breaths. It's a rhythm faster than what seems normal, like he is having some sort of panic attack or disturbing dream.

Last night comes back to me rapidly. Christian wanting me to sleep in his bed with him. Me about to undress and remove my bra, but fortunately for me, he had stopped me from doing it. He doesn't seem interested in pressuring me for sex, at least. _For now_. I know for sure he hasn't done anything to me during the night, because I don't feel any different. I feel completely normal; My body doesn't feel as though it has been forcefully invaded on in any way whatsoever.

He makes a noise, startling me. It's a deep, strangled grunt that seems to rise from the very back of his throat.

I bring myself up slowly as not to rouse him, drawing my knees to my chest, watching him. Though his face is obstructed to me thanks to his arm shielding it, I think I can see him twitching. His hand clenches and unclenches compulsively near the side of his head.

He must be having an unpleasant dream.

I'm undecided on whether to try to wake him or not. It might be too much if I wake him suddenly. But then he speaks.

"Don't," he cries out, his voice panicked.

With how his voice sounds while he speaks, it makes me feel even more sorry for him. He sounds utterly terrified. Whatever he is dreaming about, it must be bad.

"Please, don't." His breathing seems to get even more louder and laborious, his chest rising and falling from his exhales and inhales. I hear the mattress even give out a few creaking noises as he shakes. "Stop, please. I'll... I'll be good. Please."

I wonder what he is dreaming about. His mother, perhaps? The one that did all those terrible things to him? Is the abuse that she inflicted on him a reoccurring theme for his nightmares nightly?

My heart constricts in pity and I decide I can't take it anymore. I reach over, flicking on the lamp, letting it cover him and the room in a dull, yellow glow. The light doesn't seem to wake him, though. He's too far gone, somehow. With the light that scans across where he lays, I can see him more visibly then. His hair looks darker, damp, strands curling and sticking to his forehead. His skin is covered in a shiny sheen of sweat.

I hate that despite what he is doing to me, that I find it impossible to hate him. I feel so sorry for him, for all the terrible and unimaginable things he must have lived through as a child and all throughout growing up.

I hesitate before touching him on the arm with my hand, shaking him a little. Even his skin feels fevered and sticky beneath my fingertips. Just before I am starting to suspect that he _is_ too far gone and too deep in his night-terror, he stirs with frightening quickness. His arm falls from his face as he props himself up on his elbows, squinting at me heavily through the light, his gray eyes wet and disorientated.

"You... you were having a nightmare," I explain quietly, watching him nervously as he glances around his bedroom groggily, still half-asleep. "I just thought that the decent thing to do would be waking you."

He meets my gaze again, breathing in a calmer way now that he has come to his senses. He lifts up a hand, wiping his fingers over his brow before glancing down at them, at the sweat on his shaking fingers. "What... what time is it, Anastasia?" he pants, confused.

"Um, I... I'm not sure."

He shifts onto his side, peering up at me quizzically. "Did my alarm go off yet?"

"No, not yet. I just... you were making noises and I could tell you were dreaming of something bad?"

I think he is annoyed at me waking him from his sleep, but what else could I do? Certainly not leave him while he slept though a night-terror surely. Irritation gleams in his eyes before he rubs around them sleepily with his fingers, wiping away the moisture around them. He must have been crying in his sleep too.

He sighs loudly through his nostrils, rubbing his eyes again to wake himself up more. "Well, thank you," he mutters after a long moment, his voice still thick with sleep. "Thank you for waking me up."

I can't tell whether he is being sarcastic or not, but when he looks my way again, I see his expression is soft. Grateful, even.

I smile tightly. "Your welcome." I don't know whether its all right to ask, but I'm curious. Besides, I heard somewhere that talking things over helps. "Do you experience nightmares a lot?"

"About four times a week at the most."

"Are they about... what happened to you as a child?"

Christian glances away from me for a moment, the hesitation to answer palpable from him. He licks around his lips slowly. "You could say that they are, yes. Sometimes I... I dream of my bitch of a mother, of what she did to me."

"I thought so. I heard you muttering, pleading for someone to stop. Telling them that you would... be good."

"Yes, these types of dreams have been happening for a very long time." He passes a hand over his face and into his hair, sighing heavily. "For as long as I can remember."

"You said you talk to a therapist? So they know about it? About the nightmares?"

Christian presses his lips together in a tight, thin line. "Of course they do." He shrugs, looking pensive. "But they said that there wasn't much they could do to help me stop experiencing them. Apparently its a... common side-effect when you go through something like I did."

I suppose I can't be surprised then that he experiences constant nightmares the way he does. It's just sad, though.

"Lay back down," he orders gently, slapping the space between us on the mattress. I can tell he doesn't mean for me to do it so he can do something to me; Well, at least I am praying he won't.

But seeing as we have slept pretty much the full night in bed together and he hadn't so much as even looked at me in the wrong way, I think I'm safe. I hesitate before sliding back down under the warm sheets, stiffening automatically when he moves closer to me, enfolding me in his arms again. He sighs loudly in what seems to me a relieved and content way, resting his chin against the side of my head.

After about thirty seconds, my muscles loosen from their rigidity and I start to astonishingly enjoy it. Not his closeness exactly, not in a romantic way. It's the heat of his body that I find I enjoy, the warmth. Not once did I expect to feel that way when he had brought up about it being time for us to share the same bed together though.

I still don't understand why I feel so good about sleeping with him in bed. It's confusing. Not to mention, I feel like a traitor, like I am betraying myself. How can I find comfort in sleeping beside him when he is doing this to me? I should be thoroughly disgusted, and yet, scarily enough, disgust is the very last thing I feel. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I more so feel sorry for him rather than anything else of what I am feeling towards him? I sense he finds great comfort in being in bed with someone. It seems to curb his loneliness and make him feel better somehow.

It mightn't be enough to cure him of his nightmares over what happened to him in the past.

But it may very well help me get that much closer to escaping and being let go once the timing is right.

My strategy from this morning comes back into mind as I turn on my side, getting more comfortable as he leans against me with more weight. He nuzzles his chin into my hair in a strangely affectionate way, causing my belly to clench, my insides squirming in unease.

I have to be cooperative no matter how bat-shit crazy every part of this seems. If I indulge him in his every whim, no matter how much it requires me to go far outside my comfort zone like sleeping in bed with him is, then hopefully he will eventually see the light and will release me from his penthouse sooner.

"Does this make you happy?" I murmur softly despite believing I already know the answer. "Does sleeping together in the same bed like this make you happy?"

"It does." Christian's voice comes out in a low and deep rumble, like he is on the verge of falling back to sleep. "I can honestly say that I have never felt this happy before."

He hasn't felt this happy before? It's sweet. Disturbing, off-putting, but sweet.

"That can't be true."

"Oh, but it _is_. I feel as though I've just woken up, as though..." He pauses in silence for a moment, maybe thinking how to phrase it best, "As though I have spent my entire life dreaming, half-asleep and... _right_ here, right _now_ , I've _finally_ woken up. I'm awake and I'm alive now."

"Me, too," I whisper out, even though its a flat-out lie. He's probably far too delusional to even tell the difference. "I didn't expect to feel so... happy. But I am."

I'm the furthest thing from happy; I'm frustrated, bored, frightened. _Everything_ all at once, which can't be healthy on anyone's body, all that stress and mixed feelings.

I miss talking to Kate when I wake up of a morning in our apartment. I miss being able to get in my car and do silly chores, like the grocery shopping. I miss receiving Kate's text messages- and he has my phone. I miss my parents in a way I have never missed them ever before. I miss _everything_.

"Really?" He breathes hoarsely near my skin. "You're happy?" I can tell he actually believes me. He's surprised.

"Yes, I am. I am _so happy_ to be with you, Christian." I know its exactly what he wants to hear. "I realize that now. I have never felt happier than I have these past few days myself."

I guess he is satisfied by that, he finds solace in it, because everything goes quiet again on his end. Then he starts breathing again, in a slow and drawn-out way. He's fallen back to sleep, maybe even floating high on the comfort of my reassuring lie. I close my eyes again, trying to ignore the fact that he is in bed with me, my captor, keeping me warm with a strong arm wrapped around me, his chest pressed against me. I doze in and out, and then I am rudely awoken again when I hear an alarm going off. The mattress lurches. When I reopen my eyes, Christian is standing in his boxer shorts near his dresser, turning his alarm clock off.

It must be time for him to get dressed and ready for work. The time couldn't have come sooner.

I shut my eyes, pretending to sleep while I hear his bare feet pad against the carpet. I hear the door to his bathroom and combined walk-in wardrobe close carefully, like he doesn't want to wake me. Then I allow my eyes to open again, sitting up slowly.

It must be seven thirty now. He always gets ready to leave at this time.

Being stuck in his house has let me learn by heart all his patterns and daily routine.

Something makes me glance down at his bedside dresser though I am not entirely sure what. That's when I see it. A bright red lanyard half shut in the drawer. I think I saw that bright red rope when he had to get me pads and tampons.

 _Holy shit._ It's his key card. The one to access the elevator.

Without much thought and seeing how I can use his absence in the bathroom to my advantage, I reach down, yanking it out. It is a key card. It's exactly what I need. How foolish of him to leave it in such an easy to find place, but at the same time, I am so grateful to him for that foolishness. He may have gloated about being meticulous and well-planned about what he is doing to me, but even those with the most well-thought out of plans are bound to slip-up eventually.

With the lanyard curled tight in my grip, it galvanizes me straight into action.

I don't bother about redressing. I don't care if I have to even run down the street in just my bra and underwear, exposing myself to the public and everyone within eyesight. My opportunity of freedom means way more than any modesty right now.

In a short second, I go from sitting perched in bed underneath the comfy blankets, to running towards the door. It's then I hear the bathroom door open, but I don't stop and look to see whether he is on my tail. It's now or never.

I may not be very athletic, but with my shorter height, I had been a particularly good runner in high school. It was just other sports that I was always too uncoordinated for. The adrenaline pushes me to run for my life, using all my leg muscles to push myself even faster. Then I hear him, him running behind me. I've only just reached the elevator, trying to get my shaky hands to work in slotting the card in, when Christian catches me.

"No, please," he pants roughly in a thready voice. "You can't leave me, Anastasia. _Not_ yet."

His arms close around me from behind, pulling me and holding me to him. His arms squeeze around my waist so hard that the wind is knocked out of me for a second, then I regain enough equilibrium to fight back. I start kicking around at him with my bare feet- hitting his shins with my ankles, any part of him I can find- wriggling viciously to try to get myself loose.

Since he hasn't pinned my arms down, I use them, sending hits and slaps his way but the way we are facing and angled leaves them off-balance. I am not even sure I am hitting him with enough strength to actually do him brutal damage. The lanyard slips from my fingers to the floor and I know its hopeless then. I can never get out. He's too strong, too fast. Too agile.

"Don't tell me you are like _her_." His voice is soft, tortured. Now _he's_ the one pleading. "Don't leave me like everyone else does."

I have to resort to pleading now. I don't want him to view me as weak, but I have no other choice. His arms remain around my waist, tight to the point of pain, hurting the skin of my navel.

"Please, Christian, you can't expect me to stay here," I start crying, trying to pull all my body weight downwards to the floor so his arms will come loose. "I can't stay here anymore. _Please_."

It's obvious my pleads are going straight past him. I had even dared to feel sorry for him, yet why should I? He feels no remorse obviously. If he did, he would release me right now. He would see how much this is paining me.

He shoves his chin into my hair, his mouth near my ear. His breaths are warm. "Why did you have to go and do that, Anastasia?" He's panting, breathing heavily from the exertion himself, holding me flush up against his body, keeping me prisoner in his arms. "You told me you were happy last night. So why did you have to go and ruin it by doing this to me?" He's blaming me. But doing this _to him_? What the fuck?

"I'm not doing _anything_ to you, Christian. Your _the one_ that is doing this _to me_."

I start to feel helpless, suffocated. He won't let me go. Lifting my hands, I wrap them around his forearm, curling my fingers around. I try to pull, try to yank myself free. It's no good. When I use my fingernails to scratch at his skin maliciously, making red claw marks, that proves just as futile. Why won't he let me go? Or is this part of his enjoyment? He enjoys feeling me struggle against him, powerless, while he has all the power? All the control? Is this some sort of power-trip to him? Some sort of thrilling game?

"Please," I beg again, my voice wavering. I try to crane my neck around, to see him, only I can't. My neck won't go that far. "Please, you're hurting me. Just let my waist go. You've made your point, Christian."

It's a relief when his arms start to slacken from around me. I'm breathing so hard, it feels like I can't get enough oxygen in to my brain. But he's the same; He's breathing raggedly and just as hard himself. Suddenly he's let me go totally and I go crazy.

 _A temporary moment of insanity._

I curl my hand into a fist, whirling around, and then I'm hitting him, punching him square on the nose. I think it hurts me more than it does him; Well, it certainly makes me feel terrible, that I could do such a thing to someone. My hand aches from the contact with his nose, and I cradle it close to my stomach as the jolt of pain through my knuckles intensifies. I fall two steps back to create safer distance between us, shaking violently.

It comes a minute too slow. Perhaps he is just as shocked and unsuspecting as I am, that I could be capable of doing such a thing. He makes a deep noise of agony coming from the base of his throat; a horrible growl that tears through clenched teeth, as he cups his nose with a hand, slightly bent over towards the floor.

 _Oh, shit. What have I gone and done now?_

I stare at him, waiting for the moment he retaliates as he closes his eyes tightly for a terrifyingly long second, the blood dribbling out. Now that I've done that to him, who knows what he will do to me now? He'll hurt me back, I know it. I am even anticipating it, expecting it. I brace myself for it, standing still, ignoring the tears rolling down my cheeks as I watch him, almost defiantly.

He lets his hand fall from his nose, patting it with his fingers. He looks at the shiny coating of blood dotting his fingertips carefully, curiously. I know I haven't broken it, at least. I hadn't smacked him _that_ hard. But there's blood. _Oh, god. I've made him bleed._ Blood trickles down through his nostrils, staining the stubble above his upper lip red.

He has never been the violent one, not once. He has never treated me too badly. He has never hit me back or made me hurt or bleed. It's just been me. I have a feeling it will change, starting now. I've ruined everything- my strategic game from last night, especially. You can only push someone so far before they start fighting back.

He won't dare look at me, which makes it even worse. He simply inhales shakily through his mouth loudly. Then he sniffles loudly, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Even more blood comes off then.

"I'm _so_ sorry. I can't _believe_ I just did that," I say desperately, trying to alleviate him. "I don't know what came over me just then. You just... you can't keep me here forever. Can't you see that?"

Christian ignores me, too preoccupied with his bloody nose. He rolls his head back and forth around his shoulders, his expression resigned like he's tired, and I see it within him then. I hadn't seen it before. Whether he knows it or not, he is capable of anything. Of terrible darkness. _Anything._

"I worry about my parents and... and my friends. They'll be worried about me, wondering where I am. I don't want them to worry about me, and I bet they are already looking for me?"

"Who's looking for you?" He finally speaks, lifting his head to meet my gaze with narrowed eyes. The wet blood there beneath his nose only serves to make me feel guilty.

"My Mom and Dad. My friends. _Kate_."

"Kate?" He raises his eyebrows, trying to suppress a smile. He finds something funny in what I've said for some reason. "You think your shallow friend Kate is worried about you?" It's like he knows something that I don't. Something cruel.

"I know Kate will be worried about me. She cares about me. She'll wonder about my absence away from the apartment."

"But not enough to alert the police or your parents, _clearly_ ," he mutters under his breath, his low voice singing with spite, with cruelty. "Do you want to know what your friend thinks, Anastasia? The friend that you think cares and worries about you so much?" He pushes out his cheek with his tongue, his head shaking slightly. "She thinks you are safe and happy staying over at a good friends place; that's what she thinks. She doesn't even know where you are or what's happening. And you want to know something? She believed it _so easily_ , what I had texted back to her, that you were happy staying at a friends house, that she needn't worry. She obviously doesn't know you much, does she?"

His words are mean and cutting. _Son of a bitch._ I knew he had my phone. He's been texting Kate, pretending to be me. He's taunting me about it, making fun of me. I guess I deserve that, considering I just punched him and made him bleed. I just didn't know someone was capable of being so cruel to another human being?

"She _obviously_ doesn't know or care about you as much as you thought, if she can't even tell the difference from me texting her to you texting her, can she?"

"You're a bastard," I spit out before I can help myself. _But he is. He really, really is._

"Maybe." He shrugs at my remark, careless, amusement glistening in his gray eyes. "But shouldn't all of that tell you something? That your beloved best friend couldn't even tell the difference between me texting her pretending to be you, and you texting her as yourself? You know what she said first thing a few hours after I had taken you, Anastasia? You want to hear what she wrote?"

I don't know why he is doing this, but I play along. "Fine. Tell me."

"She said that she thinks the guy that she is with is so hot, that she's taking him back to the apartment. She hoped you wouldn't mind. At the end of all that, she just asked where you had gone off to. You're a second priority to her, especially when it comes to men. You obviously care _more_ about your shallow friend than _she_ does about _you_." He sounds so convinced, so sure.

If he is just saying it on purpose to upset me, he has succeeded. His words hurt. They sting like hell. "That's not true," I argue back, fresh tears forming in my eyes. "Kate cares about me. I bet that by tomorrow morning, she'll realize something isn't right with me despite your text messages, and she'll end up calling the police." I know Kate will end up doing that. Surely soon she will have to notice something is seriously wrong. She'll _have_ to.

"Well, if there is one thing that you can take from what I am telling you, it's that... no one cares about you as much as I do. We're all we have left; Just you and me, each other. No one even knows you are missing. Not your beloved Kate, not your parents. Not anyone."

But I saw that thing on the news about the student having gone missing? Maybe it wasn't even me? Maybe it was just wishful thinking. "It won't stay that way forever, though. It won't, and you have to know it? Eventually Kate or someone will figure it out, and then the police will come for you. You'll go to jail for a long time, maybe even spend the rest of your life in prison."

Just as how he had reacted before when I had dared to mention it, Christian appears unfazed, like he could hardly care less about the idea of facing probable jail time. "Even if that's true, it would be worth it. Going to jail would be worth it, in the end."

His blase attitude about going to jail scares me. "What?"

"It would be worth it, going to jail. For the sake of being able to spend time with you, it's worth it. What I did, it's wrong, yes. But it's worth it."

"So you wouldn't care at all?" I retort in disbelief. "And what about your family? Would they be so blase as well?"

He grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching. He stares at me intently, fear there in his eyes. His reaction tells me everything; He may say he wouldn't care, but he doesn't truly believe that. He would hate to put his family through this if he did end up going to jail.

"See? You aren't as Mr. Cool As A Cucumber as you like to pretend that you are, Christian. You know it would hurt your family if it ever happened to you, if you ever went to jail. There _is_ a way to stop it so it wouldn't have to go that far."

He tilts his head to the side, his lips parted, eyes narrowed. "What way?"

"You _know_ what way. You _know_ the answer to that already yourself, Christian."

I can't help stepping backwards in caution when he suddenly moves forward towards me. Is this the part where he finally lashes out and retaliates? Only, much to my relief, he doesn't do anything to me. He just bends down, picking up the key card from where I dropped it on the floor. _And to think I had been so close..._

He starts playing with the bright red lanyard, tying it into a knot with deft and nimble fingers. "Well, either way, I think we both learned something out of what has happened here this morning, haven't we?" His voice is brighter, like he's trying to cheer himself up.

"Oh? What's that?"

"Firstly, to never leave a key card where you could find it. I can't trust you as much as I thought I could. And secondly..." He hesitates, glancing up from his knot to look at me. His bright gray eyes roam around my face. " _Secondly_ , that no matter what you do and no matter how hard you try to escape and fight me, you will _always_ be mine, Anastasia. You can't leave until I let you."

 _His? What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

"Yours?" I bark out, scoffing. "I am _not_ yours, Christian. I am not a possession."

"Yes, you are, you _are_ mine. You are here, with me. No one else, but me. You are for no one else, but me." I feel sick at his words. Ill. "You are _my_ little prisoner." It's like in his twisted mind its an endearment. "We're all we have left; Just you and me." _Yes, and he's definitely made sure to keep it that way._ Shoving the key card into his pocket, he turns away from me slowly, touching his nose again. "Excuse me. I need to get to work."

Great, now we're back where we started. But it was only natural I would have tried to escape, had the opportunity presented itself.

 **Sorry if this was bad. Hoping you all had a wonderful Christmas? :)**

 **PS, I'm sorry if it seems endless angst/depressive. I had a terrible Christmas where I turned up to visit my father and he threw me out, threw the gifts I had brought him at me, and told me never to see him again. I apologize for bringing my personal life up and into it, so I'll try to make it more lighthearted in a sense. Christian will be doing the right thing and letting her go very soon. Sorry!**

 **EDIT: Just want to thank you so much for your messages and kind support. It's been really hard, I still can't seem to get over it. I'm sorry if it carries on into the story a bit, perhaps I just need a bit of a break from writing to clear my head, I don't know. But then writing offers a great distraction from thinking about it. Thank you! I know the stories crazy and unpleasant, most likely. Thanks so much, you guys are the greatest, so lovely!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you so much for being so kind. I am always so shocked and blown away. Also, thank you for your support due to what has happened with my father. It means a lot to know that there are such supportive and kind people out there, even strangers on the internet! Thank you!  
**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

As I force myself to run a hot bath, a new cohesive idea I haven't previously thought of forms.

So far, I have tried everything in order to convince him to let me go: I have tried bargaining, saying I will go out for coffee with him and let him get to know me, if he releases me right away.

I've tried being cooperative and kind to him, asking him questions about himself. I've listened about his mother's abuse- sympathizing with him, even. I've allowed him to sleep with me in the same bed. So far, it has all been useless.

He showed me his true colors this morning when he said what he did after I tried to escape, about how he was texting Kate under the pretense of being me so she wouldn't alert the police.

I've tried hitting him and being confrontational with him, which has only served to be counterproductive.

Now, I realize I'll have to move onto my next strategy, one I haven't tried as yet. He says he wants us to get to know each other. He wants me to end up loving him so desperately. But you can't get to know someone if they purposefully turn a cold shoulder on you all the time, can you?

I'll ignore him from now on. I won't even so much as look at him. When he tries to talk to me, I won't answer back. I'll drive him crazy with my silence, hopefully enough that it will finally dawn onto him that you can't possibly learn to love someone in this way, not while they are doing this to you. Surely he will have no choice but to release me then.

The nightly dinners I make for him before he comes home from work... they are _done_. Making dinners for him is over now.

From this point onward, I am taking a vow of silence. No talking to him, not even a mere look in his direction. No dinners to feed him with, no _anything_.

* * *

I hear him arrive home just as I've turned to the next page in the first volume of the _Tess_ book he gave me. For the past few hours, I've needed a good enough distraction to whisk me away out of this hell mentally. The book has seemed to have done the trick, at least; I'm too engrossed in reading my favorite book to think or dwell on my misery- even if it _is_ about the third time I have read the book ever since first discovering Thomas Hardy's work four years ago.

With my master plan in the forefront of my mind, I wiggle over onto my stomach, facing the wall rather than the way the doorway is so I won't have to look at him if he tries to come into the room. I've been lounging around on the bed for hours now, lost in my favorite book all over again. Reading seems to be the only way to free myself from my own thoughts.

I feel like I'm going crazy though, because of the isolation. There was a time there where I loved being alone, especially after finishing a shift at Clayton's or when I had free time from studying. I enjoyed the serenity of it all. Now, I think I hate it. I'm alone for most hours of the day until _he_ comes home, and it's irritating. Irritating and lonely.

I think I know what Christian is now. What he has to be.

He's nothing more than a sociopath. A psychopath. _Both_.

I've thought it over all morning, remembering when I took sociology class in high school. Sociopaths are remorseless; they have lack of empathy. I've thought about all the times I have cried in front of him, begging him to let me go. He looked affected and sad by my pleadings, sure, but clearly he isn't capable of feeling it _that_ much if he can't be swayed to let me go. Only a sociopath would consider it justifiable to do this to another human being. It's all about _him_ and _his_ needs, while he refuses to take my own personal feelings into consideration.

A terrible, heavy knot in my stomach appears when I hear his footfalls as he comes up the stairs. He sounds like he is in no deep rush to see me, but I make sure I keep my head down, pleased my uncombed long hair spills out to cover half of my face, seeming as though I am preoccupied with reading my book even although reading has become immediately impossible with his presence back in the house.

By the time he does his usual knock three times on the outer wall by the door to let me know he intends to come in, I've read the same paragraph four times already.

I hear his footsteps as he enters the room and it takes all I'm worth not to glance behind my shoulder at him. I want to be sure what he is doing behind me; I need to know and always be vigilant. Yet, the compulsion to follow through on my idea of giving him the cold shoulder is far stronger than that. I _need_ to ignore him. I _need_ to give him hell.

"Are you awake right now, Anastasia?" he asks, half-whispering.

 _What the hell does it look like?_ I want to retort, but I can't. _I'm reading. Isn't that obvious?_ I rub my lips together, fighting against the impulse to even just look at him. I don't want to give him the satisfaction though.

There's a long silence while he waits for me to reply. When it doesn't come, I suppose he guesses my game then. He sighs loudly, then a second later, I feel the bed sink as he sits on the edge of it.

"You are finally reading the book I got you?" he remarks, sounding pleased. "Is it any different from the other copies you've read, being a first edition?"

I fix my eyes resolutely on the small black text on the yellowing page, determined not to let him win. If I _do_ cave in, it will all be totally hopeless.

He sighs long and hard again, the bed creaking as he moves. "You're ignoring me. You hate me now, don't you? After what I did and said this morning?"

 _Yes, yes I do, Christian. You make it so easy for me to feel as though I hate you._

"I _know_ you do. You hate me now after what happened."

 _At least he is intuitive..._

"Well, I can't say I blame you," he continues in a bleak, low rumble. "But let me assure you of this, Anastasia. No matter how much you feel you hate me right now, no matter how... angry you are with me, just know that all that you are feeling towards me are things that I _already feel_ about myself." My heart seizes at his tone. He sounds so filled with... distaste. "Maybe it's even a self-fulfilling prophecy?"

I just can't do it. I can't do it anymore.

I turn on my back slowly, glancing his way while holding the open book in front of me. I can't see his face as he is sitting with his back to me while he is perched on the edge of the mattress, but I can see his head is hanging down low. He is holding his head in his hands.

"I know I was an asshole this morning." Finally, he leans back, looking at me. It's gotten darker in the room, more so than I've realized. It's harder to see and make out his expression. "I'm sorry for... for how I was. But you've just got to _understand_ that I-" He falters, breathing shallowly. He sighs loudly, trying again. "I just couldn't let you leave yet. Surely you can understand that? I mean, I went through _all of this_ effort in getting you here. If I let you leave now, when its barely been two weeks since I've had you here..."

I have no idea what Christian is trying to say, but the desperation coming from him is almost palpable. He desperately wants me to understand.

" _Of course_ I intend to let you go soon. I _know_ I can't keep you here forever and, _honestly_ , I don't want to." His face is obscured in shadow but I can see his eyes shining at me. I can hear the sincerity in his tone. "I _don't want_ to have to keep you here forever, and I'm not going to. Two weeks is just a little too... _early_."

"How long then, Christian?" At last, I bring myself to speak, breaking my vow of silence. But I don't care. I need to know this; It's important. "How long do you expect me to stay here, if not for two weeks at the most?" My voice is strained, needy.

" _Another_ two weeks. That makes it a _full_ month."

" _Why_ does it have to be a full month though? _Why_ can't it be sooner?"

He slaps a hand against his knee. "Don't ask me that." It tears out of clenched teeth in frustration. "You _know_ why."

I feel an outpouring of instant irritation billow through me. "Do you know what you are, Christian?"

"What I am?" He's confused, uncomprehending. " _What_ am I?"

"I've had all day to think about it and now, I think I _finally_ realize _what_ you are. You're a sociopath."

" _What_?"

"A sociopath," I repeat, my voice coming out too high and small. I know this will probably offend him, yet its what I want. "You are the textbook definition of a sociopath, Christian."

"A sociopath?" He turns more on the bed to see me through the dark. Now I start to wish I could turn on a light so I can properly see all of his face. "Is that what you think? That I'm a sociopath, Anastasia?"

"Yes, I do. I think you _are_ one."

"Well, I'm sorry but I... I don't believe that to be true."

"Yeah, well, _you_ wouldn't, would you? Denial is another thing that makes a person a sociopath."

"From what I know of it, sociopaths are incapable of feeling."

"What? And you think _you aren't_ incapable of feeling?" I feel like such a mean and vindictive cow, but I don't care. This is payback from this morning over what he said about Kate, how he acted towards me. "Also, sociopaths are incapable of empathy. They are very... self-serving. They are more concerned about _their own_ wants and desires and disregard other people's feelings, paying no consideration of them. I think that sounds like _someone_ , doesn't it?" I close the _Tess_ book, placing it down beside me on the mattress while I sit up with my knees tucked in near my stomach, waiting for what he has to say in response to that.

Christian is silent for a very long moment, just looking at me. Then he says, very soberly, "I think you are wrong. I'm not a sociopath. I _can't_ be."

"And how can you be so sure?"

"Because, firstly... I _am_ capable of feeling. I _never stop_ feeling. I feel for my family, for... for _you_." He isn't angry with me for bringing it up, I don't think. He speaks calmly in a normal tone of voice, like we are having a healthy discussion; A normal debate where both people's sides can be heard and freely spoken. "As for being incapable of empathy, I don't think that's correct either. I feel _a lot_ of empathy; From strangers walking down the street less-off than I am- the homeless starving and begging out on the street- everything. It's why I make it a priority to donate to all the numerous charities like I do every month." He pauses for a second, inhaling in deeply. "I feel for _all_ the children that have to go through one foster home to the next, all the children whose parents abused them like my mother did, _molested_ them... _All_ of that."

"So what you say might be true, you may have empathy and a good heart," I agree. "But you _don't_ have empathy _for me_ , with what you are doing to me. You don't-"

"- _Of course_ I do," he interrupts me impatiently. "It's why I changed my mind. I'll let you go after a full month of staying here." I still don't know whether to believe him about that, but if he's telling the truth, then I am relieved. It doesn't seem as unbearable if I only have to stay less than two weeks more.

I run my fingers through my hair, snagging them in the tangles, as I sit up straighter. "You promise?" I ask cautiously. "Two _more_ weeks and then you'll let me go?"

"I _promise_. Scouts honor." He makes the sign, holding up two fingers. "Cross my heart, hope to die." I still feel like he is making fun of me somehow. "But back onto our very intriguing subject about sociopaths, I think if I _truly was_ like you were saying I am, wouldn't I have killed you by now? Wouldn't I have hit you back for all the times you have hit me?"

"You don't have to necessarily be a serial killer or an abuser to equate with being a sociopath. There are still _a lot_ of sociopaths out there in everyday life who don't kill. You clearly derive pleasure in having me here against my will like this, don't-"

"-Do you want to go out for a drive tonight?" he asks me gently, butting through my words. "We can go _anywhere_ you want, for _however_ long you want."

Hope surges within me at his words. For a moment, I suspect I've misheard him. But then he simply remains quiet, looking at me, waiting. "What? Go out for a drive? _Where_?"

"I realize it's not healthy having you holed up in the apartment like this most of the time. It's nine-thirty and usually, at that hour, there is less traffic and its more secluded and quiet on the roads. We can take one of my cars out and go for a drive?" I really wish I could see his face better. It's impossible to tell whether he is leading me on or not. _Is he being serious or is this another cruel game? Is he trying to get my hopes up just so that he can turn around and let me down? Laugh at me for believing him?_

"You're joking, aren't you?" I ask warily. "This is just another game to you, isn't it? You don't really mean what you are saying. I mean, you said it yourself this morning. You even _admitted_ it. About me being little more than _your_ prisoner. You want to rub it cruelly into my face about how I can never see anything out of this house ever again, don't you?"

Christian doesn't answer. That hope recedes and dies in my chest when he stands, leaving the room. I almost expect him to slam the door and lock it up on me, but he doesn't. He's gone for about five minutes.

When I hear his footsteps up the stairs again and he returns to the room, he flicks on the light switch this time, blinding me momentarily. There's still a bit of dried blood under his nose from this morning. He isn't wearing one of his usual work attire suits; He must have changed before he came up. He's wearing a black polo shirt with a black leather jacket over it and black jeans. He never shaved like he had promised to last night, but at least his beard is neatly trimmed. As he comes closer, he lowers his eyes to the thing he is fiddling with by his fingers.

He's holding a long, thin strip of something red in color. A cable tie, I realize. At Clayton's hardware, I would have to stock them on the shelves all the time.

 _So what use can he possibly have with one now, though?_

"Stand up, Anastasia," Christian orders gently, lifting his chin to meet my gaze again. He rubs around the stubble on his upper lip with his fingers.

I hesitate before climbing off the bed slowly, stepping towards him while wringing out my hands at my sides. I have no idea what he intends to do with me or if he intends to use the cable tie against me, but I guess I'll have to take my chances for the sake of seeing if he is lying to me or not about getting out of his house for a drive.

I gnaw down on my bottom lip. "Why do you have a cable tie?" I ask nervously, watching as his eyes dart back and forth between my mouth and my eyes, his head tilted. "Are you going to do something to me with it?"

He shakes his head slightly. "Hold out your left arm."

" _Why_ , Christian? _What_ are you going to do?"

He sighs impatiently through his nostrils. "You'll see. Put out your arm otherwise we can't go out for that drive after all. This is just another precaution."

I _do_ want to go out for a drive, though. _Anything_ to get the chance to be out of his house, to finally see something new. I would feel less restricted, more... free. Standing outside on a balcony can only do so much, and it would be great to not have iron barriers in the way. Not to mention, hopefully there will be a lot of cars and people out in public. I can be seen in public. Hopefully someone will recognize me. Because of all of that alone, I obey, holding my arm out.

He steps back so that we are standing side by side, and I watch as he pulls the free end of the cable tie through the ratchet, making a little loop. He takes my arm, sliding my hand through the circle of the cable tie, then he pushes his hand in as well. He fastens it up tightly to the point where I can hardly move my hand at all, my skin against his, and neither can he. His hand is so much bigger than mine that my fingers just barely reach below his knuckles. I get the strange sense he's into bondage. He definitely seems to be enjoying this in an abnormal way.

"There we go," he murmurs in satisfaction, making my heart race in dread. "There is no escaping now, Anastasia. Wherever you go tonight, I go."

We are both tied and bound at the wrists by the cable tie now. It's just loose enough that it only slightly pinches into my flesh, our wrists rubbing together in friction. Even if I could manage it, I can never escape now, not while he is every bit as trapped to me as I am to him.

"We just have to go down to the garage to get the car and then we can go wherever you want to go."

 _ **HOPE THIS ONE WAS OKAY? And not a disappointment? Ana finally gets to get out of the house for a drive in Christian's car at least. Sorry if its unrealistic or boring. Things will happen more in the next chapter; He'll take her out, they will have a run in with a police car up beside them, etc. Hopefully that will make it more exciting.**_

 _ **In a lot of real cases I have read, kidnap victims were let outside from time to time by their captors. In one, he even tied her to him with cable ties and let them walk around his garden.**_

 _ **:) Thank you so much for being so kind. And thank you for allowing me to write this story; It really helps distance me away from my feelings about what happened at Christmas. Thank you! P.S: Thank you to one reviewer for commenting that it would be her left arm he binds, not her right. I'm from Ireland so that was probably why the mix-up. Our steering wheels are on different sides ;)**_

 _ **EDIT A/N: I've decided to take a bit of time off writing, I'm sorry. Just about a week or two, and then I'll begin updating more frequently again. I've been struggling with what happened with my dad still, so I don't feel in the right head-space to write at the moment. I'm sorry. Thank you so much for your support and for being lovely, it really astounds me. x**_


	15. Chapter 15

**Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. I am just doing this as a fan. No profit is being made obviously.**

 **Thank you all so much! I'm sorry for taking a while to update, but I just needed time off. I'm in better spirits now to update, I think, so I hope you enjoy this one. :-) Thank you so much for your lovely reviews and the alerts, they make my day and shock me every time! I'm so flattered, thank you! X**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

As we step into the elevator, the instance the automatic doors close us in, I feel strangely suffocated. Adrenaline and nerves race throughout me as I watch him press the button that will take us down to ground floor level of the building. My head is restless as I look around, catching a glimpse of my stressed and eager reflection in the mirrors on the walls all around us. I should be doing _something_ , anything. I should hit him, do _something_ to catch him off-guard.

Yet, a small and logical voice inside my head tells me that right now isn't the right moment for it; We are literally trapped and boxed in, and we're bound by the wrists with cable tie. Even if I could do something, there isn't anywhere else to go. I have to be realistic about this; The chances of me getting free are unlikely. If I do something now, I'm at risk of him just bringing me back up into that cramped-up place he calls his home. I wouldn't be allowed to get outside and experience the fresh air or see some new, different sights if I do.

Weighing up all the odds inside my head warns me that it's better to cooperate right now rather than to take any careless risks or make any attempts, difficult as it is when my body seems to be in flat-out flight mode. It's better to just stand back and go along with it.

It takes about twenty seconds in the elevator as it descends lower to finally reach our destination. Ground floor level. The doors open manually with a ping, and I have no choice but to stagger along with him as he starts walking. With our wrists tied, there isn't much freedom of movement. He was right with what he remarked about upstairs.

 _Wherever he goes, I go now..._

It's either be dragged along or comply willingly.

My eyes search our location frantically. First thing I notice, is that we are in some sort of garage. Cars are parked around us of all various makes and models, and colors; Convertibles, Jeeps. BMW's. There is no one in sight, no one to cry out to. It's just us, in this dimly lit box of a concrete garage.

"Right over here," he says, tugging me forcefully into the direction of a silver BMW with tinted windows. My wrist burns from the friction of the cable tie as he does it and as he stops by the driver's side door of his car, distracted by finding his keys in his leather jacket pocket, I peer around us again desperately.

There are so many cars in here. I count them quickly, noticing about ten. So where are their owners? He said it was around nine-thirty at night. _Why haven't they come to collect their cars to go home yet? They need their cars to get around places, don't they? Where is everyone?_

"Whose cars are all these?" I force myself to ask, reluctantly bringing my gaze back onto him. "Or are they from the people that live in the apartments in the building as well?" He's found his keys from in his jacket pocket, and he leans down, inserting it in to unlock the door.

He unlocks the door and steps back to open it fully, his shoulder banging against mine as we try to awkwardly shuffle in while our wrists are bound, me going first. "They're all mine, Anastasia," he says, looking directly into my eyes. "I hired out this garage so I could put all my cars in it." I can tell he wants me to be impressed, but I just end up feeling aggravated and disappointed.

" _All_ these cars are yours? But there is, like, _ten_ of them? Isn't that a bit excessive?"

"Well, I _am_ a very wealthy man. I can afford to buy these things."

I have to get in the car first, scooting over into the passenger's seat in a tricky maneuver that requires me to lift up both legs. There really is no graceful way to go about it, but I manage.

"I thought we could take this one out for a drive," he continues, closing the door. He yanks on his seat belt, clipping it on securely, and I do the same while trying to use just my right arm. "I haven't driven this one for awhile so I figured it would probably be best in case so that the battery doesn't go flat."

I gather he's nervous about this; It's in the way his voice goes funny, the way he won't stop talking.

So he has and owns around ten cars. He has a lot of money. He has a nice apartment. He has literally everything a man could want in life. Only thing he doesn't have, I realize, is a woman. But he's really made sure to solve that problem now, hasn't he? I'm his most recent possession.

"You have everything a man could literally want in life then, don't you?" I say, unable to help the bitterness in my tone.

"They're just materialistic things, Anastasia. They aren't enough to truly make a person happy."

I ignore his words. "Well, all you needed was a woman to go with all your expensive toys. Now you've made sure you've got one, haven't you?"

He doesn't say anything in response when he starts the engine, reversing out from the parking space then forwards to the exit area. He has to steer with only one hand because it's too obvious we are bound otherwise, but he doesn't seem to do that badly with it all.

He pauses at the entrance, signalling out into the main street.

There is a car in front of us, but once traffic is free, he pulls out onto the road and I feel myself start to relax a little more and more by the minute. He is somewhat right, unfortunately; There isn't much traffic at this hour of the night. But a quick comprehensive glance through the side mirror of the car tells me we have a car behind us, because their headlights scan in full beam. It's darker at this hour, but as we reach the main multi-laned intersection and the light turns red, I see them pull up beside us.

I glance through the window straight into their car, my heart pumping. I manage to see the two people seated in both the driver's and passengers seat. It's a man and a blonde-haired woman, both middle aged. I think I see the woman glance back at me through her window, sitting up in her seat to look harder in to see who is in the BMW, and my blood seems to run cold.

 _Help me!_ I want to scream at her. _Help me, please._ _He won't let me leave his house and I need you to help me!_

Yet she doesn't and my opportunity is gone once the lights turn green again. The disappointment is so devastating that it feels almost crippling. I sag in the seat, watching them speed past us, signalling into our lane to overtake us. But then that hope surges within me again when I notice another car behind us. There is plenty of time. Hopefully someone will realize soon and I can make my attempt. It would just be easier if I could put down the window.

"It's beautiful at this time of the night, isn't it?" Christian speaks pensively, disrupting my thoughts. When I force myself to glance at him, I see he is focused on the road straight in front of us. He'll glance into the rearview mirror every now and then, but it doesn't seem as though he has cottoned on to what I'm doing. "I've always enjoyed driving at this hour. There's something... peaceful about it. Sometimes, when I couldn't sleep, I would do this a lot."

I clear my throat, forcing myself to speak. "Yes, it _is_ beautiful out here."

"Especially with all the buildings lit up, and the streets. I think its my favorite time to go driving."

"Yes." I realize what I have to say. It can't be avoided, and I don't think I really want to say it to begin with, but if I could just guilt-trip him in some way. Maybe he'll take pity on me? "Thank you so much for doing this by the way. I see what you mean, too, with all the... the buildings lit up and the scenery. It's _so much_ nicer to be out here, rather than being stuck inside in your apartment all day."

I watch his face carefully, trying to see if my words are doing anything to him. I think I see something there; I think I see a bit of regret there as his jaw tightens, but its impossible to tell, seeing as he won't take his eyes off the road to give me a clearer look.

"I wish I could stay out here forever," I say, rubbing it in. "I wish we could even just drive around all hours of the night straight into morning."

Finally, Christian removes his eyes from the road to look at me for a brief second. He smiles at me, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. I think he is starting to feel a bit sorry for me. "You can wind down the window on your side," he offers quietly, making my heart surge in relief. I'm relieved and grateful, and so profoundly happy for such a small thing to be allowed.

I find the button, pressing it. I let the tinted window came as far down as it can, leaning towards it as the air comes gushing in from all angles. I'm like a dog sticking my head out of the window. Carefree laughter escapes me uncontrollably, and when I glance into his direction again, I find him watching me, eyeing me speculatively with something there in his eyes. It's almost a bizarrely tender, amused look; the corners of his mouth slightly curled.

Unnerved, I turn back towards the open air, ignoring him again. I close my eyes as it bites and stings against them, reveling in it as it thrashes my hair around, making it fly everywhere. It's quite cold and frigid but its amazing, how refreshing and nice it is to be outside for once.

"Oh, shit," Christian swears under his breath, pulling me out of my moment.

I reopen my eyes, glancing at him, my long hair whipping around me. I catch him glance behind us quickly, his face tense. His eyes are shining with worry, but when I glance back as well, I don't see anything concerning like he does. There is just still a car behind us, too far away for me to tell what type it is.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I think that car is following us. The one behind us. It's a police car."

I feel my pulse scatter as I glance back in my seat as well. _The police are following us? Please, oh, please be for me! Please know I'm Anastasia Steele, that he has me against my will. Please be for me!_

"How can you be sure? Maybe they're just going in the same direction as us?"

"They've been following us for the past five minutes," he mutters, stressed. "I'll pull over and see whether they stop behind us or go past us."

As it turns out, he's just being paranoid. He signals over to the side of the road, pulling over safely, but they just keep sailing past us, the officer behind the steering wheel wrapped up in their own safe little word. I hear him breathing shakily as he checks behind the car again, his body rigid and tense, making sure we're in the clear to pull back out onto the road again.

He's definitely being paranoid about someone tailing us, I think. M _aybe it's the guilt and the wrongness of what he is doing to me? Maybe it is finally catching up with him for once?_

Christian's muscles seem to relax once we are back out onto the road again, but it just only turns him more alert and vigilant. He keeps throwing glances behind the car, doing head-checks. He blows loudly out through his mouth, his breath coming out in a shaky _whoosh_.

"Well, they drove straight past us," I say, hoping to calm him down a little. "I think it's safe to say that they _weren't_ following us. I think you're just being a bit paranoid."

He doesn't answer. He just signals, turning a sharp right. I realize we're doing blocks, going around in circles. My heart sinks. I hope he isn't intending to take me back to the apartment so soon. We've barely been out for less than fifteen minutes.

"Is there anywhere else we could go?" I ask hopefully. "You said that you would take me _anywhere_ I wanted to go, remember?"I try to sound calm and not so pushy with my request, because I don't want to end up frustrating him. "Is there somewhere we could go to where it's quiet so that we could get out of the car for a bit?" He shoots a look in my direction, his face impassive. "Just somewhere secluded so that we could stretch our legs and go for a walk?"

He looks my way again, and I can tell he's conflicted on whether he should let us do that or not. "Fine," he relents with a heavy sigh. "I think I know somewhere that we can go, somewhere quiet and nice. We shouldn't be disturbed there."

"Thank you," I murmur in relief, forcing myself to say it again. "I just don't exactly want to have to go back into the apartment just yet. As you know, I haven't been properly outside in over two weeks."

He ends up taking me to a pier. It's over lit with street lamps along the walkway, but it's fairly secluded at this hour. As he finds a parking spot, he switches off the engine before unbuckling his seat belt.

I undo mine as well, and then I have to do another tricky maneuver to climb over the clutch into his seat before getting out. The cable tie keeps my movements restricted while he takes his time, glancing around us before locking the car up. Then he straightens up and we start walking, hearing the water crash and overlap from the pier.

It's difficult to properly take my time and enjoy it- my first moment of actual proper freedom outside the confines of his apartment- because Christian walks faster than I do. Even if I fall behind and stop for just one second, he's always yanking me with his arm, forcing me to carry on to match his pace. Without any shoes on, it's hard to see where I am walking.

"You're walking too fast," I complain, wrenching my arm back to remain still. The cable tie only cuts into my skin, stinging me, as I resist. "It's hard to take it in properly if you keep walking so quickly. Can we just stop for a second to enjoy this?"

His face, illuminated in the lights, is hard and uncompromising as he stops to glance back at me. "No, we can't do that, Anastasia." He sounds irritated. "We'll spend another five minutes out here and then we have to go. But that's _it_."

"But you _said_ that you would take me _anywhere_ and for _as long_ as I'd wanted?" I remind him, my heart deflating. "You _said_ that, and _now_ you're telling me there is a time limit on how long I can be out here for?" A bitterness settling into my system, I start walking, dragging him along with me by the arm this time around. He gives in, resigned, following me unwillingly as I walk closer to the edge of the pier. "Remember what you said? Wherever you go, I go?"

" _Of course_ I remember saying that."

"Well, that counts on _both_ sides, Christian," I retort indignantly, turning back to look at him. "You're every bit as tied _to me_ as _I_ am to you."

I take in a deep, steadying breath as I rest against the railing, staring out into the ocean where the boats dock. There are a few lone boats by themselves, but aside from that, everything is quiet and serene. I would have enjoyed it more if I didn't have some sociopath bound to me by the wrist, standing right next to me too close for comfort because we can't stand very far away from each other. He's standing _that_ close that his leather jacket keeps brushing up against me, his hand, every time either one of us moves, but there really isn't anything I can do about that.

When I turn on my side a bit to look at him, his expression alone is almost enough to ruin my tranquility. He looks annoyed in the bright lights above us. He won't even stop glancing around to check and make sure no one is around.

"Why do you look like that?" I ask, unable to help myself.

"Look like what?" he asks, confused.

"I don't know. _Shitty_ , almost. You're ruining the serenity."

"I'm not shitty," he argues back, his voice quivering with an unidentifiable emotion. "I... I just think you're the most beautiful thing in the world." _I'm the most beautiful thing in the world?_ My stomach clenches in uneasiness as the realization hits me with full force like a wrecking ball. Okay, so he _is_ attracted to me. He has some type of sordid obsession with me, and his words confirm it. He must be that mentally ill that he views this as his way of sweeping a girl off her feet. "You just..." He hesitates, shaking his head slightly as he avoids my eyes, his expression pained.

"I just _what_?"

"You just mustn't know the effect you have. You have... no idea."

It disturbs me how flattered and embarrassed I feel over him calling me beautiful; something no man has ever really bothered to call me before. I feel all tingly, gushing with warmth. It's like my mind processes this as a date or something crazy like that.

He twists his hand around in the cable tie, making my heart clench with further uneasiness when he wraps his hand around, his long fingers intertwining between mine so that we're holding hands. It doesn't make me feel very comfortable, but again, there isn't much I can do about it.

"Just in case someone _does_ happen to walk past," he explains quietly, giving my hand a tight squeeze. Somehow I figure it is just a poor excuse to get closer to me. "If anyone _does_ , we're just a couple deciding to have a nighttime stroll together."

I look around us again. We're deserted, with no one in sight. There's no one else around but us at this hour. "But there isn't even anyone around?"

"Well, there _could_ be at any second. Things change."

"I think you are only just paranoid because you realize this is wrong," I say confidently. "You're starting to realize and now you're afraid of getting caught."

I realize he is looking at me in a way that doesn't settle with me so well. There is something there in his expression, something that wasn't there before. Something that isn't so much foreboding as it is disturbing. I think he actually wants to do something to me. Not murder me or anything mean like that, I don't think. But I think he is definitely enjoying us holding hands, like he assumes it's really romantic.

"Do you want to kiss me right now?" I ask, shocked as the blunt question leaves my mouth. I'm surprised I can even sound casual and unafraid while asking it. Then again, I suppose I am beyond caring anymore. Even if I have to prostitute myself to him for the sake of him letting me go, I think now I would actually stoop that low if it means me gaining my freedom. "Or do you still think you are unworthy?"

He stares at me for an uncomfortably long moment, his head tilted slightly to the side. He steps closer until I'm basically trapped by his body and the railing, with nowhere else to go. He's still holding my hand in a tight grip, yet his free available hand, he sits it up on the railing, trapping me even further with his arm.

He leans forward slowly, his eyes on nothing else but mine and I watch his lips part as a shaky exhale leaves him. He seems nervous, yet there is something dangerous and threatening lurking inside of him as well.

When I can't handle his staring any longer, I close my eyes tight, bracing myself for it. Then his mouth is on mine as he lifts his hand off the railing, his fingers curling over my arm as he holds me still in place. He kisses me, once, twice, disengaging with each one like he intends to stop if I get half a mind to say so.

But I just surrender, letting him take it to where he wants to go, and he grows more into it then; his lips still and soft over mine, until he starts moving them, the stubble from his beard scratching me. Knowing I have to do it otherwise it won't seem a real kiss to him, I part my lips, forcing myself to follow the same rhythm he is doing with his, tilting my head as our lips smack together noisily.

Surprisingly, I don't feel grossed-out at all, even when his hand slackens around my arm and he lifts it up to place his hand beneath my jaw, his skin-rough knuckles stroking my chin, his body weight against me as he leans over me to deepen the kiss reverentially, tenderly.

It isn't as unpleasant as I thought it would have been. Or even _sickening_ , for that matter. I think it was more so the idea of doing it with him than anything else. _How strange things are..._

 **Hope this made up for my absence? Sorry if its terrible and disappointing. Please go gentle on me :)**

 **I know this story probably isn't to many people's liking. But I thought the whole idea of was to unleash our imaginations and write whichever we feel like writing to a certain extent. I know it isn't like other stories, and I'm sorry if its too disturbing or strange. It certainly won't be your conventional love story and there is still some revelations to come very shortly!**

 **I guess this just kind of shows who I am as a person; I like writing things out of the norm that other people probably get disturbed by LOL. Thank you!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades.**

 **Thank you all so much! Hope you enjoy this one! You all flatter me and I'm so thankful for your support, especially with what happened with my father.**

 **I've tried to call him and he has ignored my phone calls, yet I found out he had rang my sister recently, so obviously he is talking to her and not me anymore. I just don't know how to get over how someone could disown their own child, but I suppose its what happens. I'm sorry for bringing my personal life into it, it just meant a lot to read your stories and thoughts on it, and I'm so appreciative by the kindness. XX**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

I am silent on the drive in his car back to the apartment. I don't even complain or say a single word. I just comply and let him take me back wordlessly.

I think I'm too stunned and confused to even do anything but sit quietly.

It was the way he kissed me. It has left me feeling strange and confused. He's a really great kisser and it didn't feel that bad at all to be the recipient of his kiss. I thought I would have felt awkward or repulsed, yet I hadn't felt either of those things at the time. It really confuses me. I actually enjoyed it, because... you could tell he was putting so much effort into the kiss. You could tell he was putting every single emotion and gentle thought into it. It was like his whole life depended on it, on showing me what he was worth in that kiss. It has left me feeling completely strange, my reaction to it.

It is like when we slept in the same bed together, and how he was real close to me, his bare back pressed against me, his arms around me, his natural body heat surrounding me. I didn't understand how I felt about that, either. How I _could even feel_ about it, no less.

I still feel his stubble scratching me, his lips as they moved with mine. It's as though the lingering sensation won't leave me. Even when I press my fingers to my lips, trying to rub them in order to make it go away, it won't and it's frustrating.

Either way I feel like such a traitor to myself; Like my body has a separate mind of its own and it isn't responding the way it should. But on the bright side, it won't even matter.

Christian expects me to stay for not any longer than two more weeks. Hopefully it will go by fast, and I'll be out back into the real world before I know it.

I gnaw down on my bottom lip with my front teeth anxiously as I peer into his direction quickly as he signals and turns a right corner, bringing us back to the main road where the entrance to the garage that we left from is. He looks... different somehow. Almost relaxed, in a sense, like after kissing me, it has taken a huge weight off him. Although I can't see him properly because he is staring straight ahead through the windshield, I think I notice by the way his cheeks seem lifted, that he is smiling to himself.

Maybe he has been privately hoping to do it for awhile now, but he was waiting for me to give him permission to beforehand? Like he wanted to show me he has every intention to be patient and respectful until I am ready for it? _Who really knows with someone like him, though..._

A disturbing thought comes to me as finally we reach the garage and he signals in, driving in at a slow, cautious speed. _What if, now that I have enabled him to kiss me, he starts pestering me for us to take it to the next level? What if he thinks now that I have allowed us to kiss, he thinks he has the right to try doing more with me? What if he starts wanting sex?_

A little knot forms into my stomach as he smoothly reverses the car into its previous parking spot of before between two of his other cars.

Shit. What have I done? Why did I have to go and ask him to kiss me like the idiot I obviously am?

What if the such positive and encouraging reaction I displayed over him kissing me instigates him to be a little more bolder into attempting to have sex with me?

I don't even know if I could handle it. Then again, I didn't think I could stand his mouth and lips on me either, and look how well I responded to that? Maybe my body would end up surprising me? But still, fact of the matter is, that I don't want to lose my virginity while being held captive in some mentally unstable guys home, no matter how passionate and _really into_ kissing me that he seemed.

God, why did I have to suggest he kiss me?

The sound of his seat-belt clicking open breaks me out of my thoughts and reminds me I should be doing the same. I lean over, getting my seat-belt open, holding my left arm high in the air as he climbs out carefully, our wrists still bound. He isn't as pushy this time as I kneel over the clutch to get out at least, but something tells me he probably feels better now that he has successfully gotten me back inside the confines of his garage without anyone noticing or me kicking up a big stink about it.

"Your arm isn't hurting too badly, is it, Anastasia?" he asks with concern once he has locked his car up securely.

"No, it... it's fine, I think."

"Don't worry. As soon as we get into the elevator and back up to the apartment, I'll cut the cable tie off." He says it like he wants to reassure me, yet I feel a surge of panic race within me as he presses the button to the elevator. It opens and we step in, our shoulders brushing together.

 _Well, great. We're back to going up the floors to his apartment._ I can't help feeling claustrophobic and filled with dread at the idea. _Great, we're returning back to my little cage until who knows how long it will be until he decides to let me out again?_

But _hopefully_ he was being sincere on what he said, about me only staying two weeks more. I don't know whether to trust him completely on that, because so far, he hasn't given me much to trust him on judging by his actions.

The doors open and we step into his penthouse, my heart hammering with uneasiness at the horrible familiarity of our surroundings. I have been here in these walls for over fourteen or fifteen days straight and already, I think I'm sick of it.

But forcing myself not to complain, I follow him into the kitchen as he finds a pair of stainless steel scissors, which he uses to carefully snip the loop of the cable tie in half so that we are both no longer bound together. At last, my arm is free and I have it all to myself again.

I sigh loudly in relief, rubbing it with my other hand, feeling how tender my wrist feels. I think I'm going to get a mark in the morning; a round red circle from where he tugged me along forcefully a few times when we stepped out of the car onto the pier. It doesn't hurt badly though. I'll survive.

"Thank you," I force myself to whisper in halfhearted gratitude.

I watch him as he walks towards the bin, throwing the snipped cable tie into the trash, his back facing me. He walks in a weary way, like he is exhausted. Tired. When I throw a look at the time on the stove, I realize its already past ten thirty in the evening. Almost eleven. It definitely explains why.

"I was thinking about having a glass of wine and then I was going to go take a bath before heading to bed. As you know, I have to work tomorrow. Do you want a drink?"

"Sure, I might as well. What kind of drink?"

"I have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon that I haven't opened yet?"

I know little about wine, but I just go along with him anyway. "Sure, that... that wine sounds good. Thank you."

I feel strangely out of place as he grabs a bottle of unopened wine that he had chilling in his fridge. I stand around awkwardly, with not knowing what to do, as he uncorks it. He grabs two glasses from a high shelf in his kitchen cabinet. As he is turning back to fill them up, that's what I see it. That red lanyard with the key card access to the elevator sitting on the kitchen table; The one I had used in my little unsuccessful escape attempt.

It takes all I have not to follow through on the urge to grab it and bolt. I have to interlace my fingers together, squeezing them together tightly. I had already tried to escape once, and he caught me easily. It would only be foolish to make another attempt. I saw how frustrated he got when I did, and I really don't want to push him and make him that way again. After all, neither of us were particularly nice afterwards.

 _Two more weeks,_ I remind myself. _He said he'll let me go after two more weeks. Two more weeks of staying here is manageable enough, isn't it?_

 _If I can just be patient. Too bad it is easier said than done..._

"Your wine," he says, handing me one of the glasses. The wine looks like blood. Freaky observation to make, but its true.

He meets and holds my gaze as we end up taking a sip of wine from our glasses at the same time. I try my very hardest not to cringe, because the wine is potent and hardly fruity or sweet at all.

"So two more weeks?" I ask, just to be certain. I know I shouldn't talk about it, because it will seem as though I only care about being released- and he clearly doesn't want me to only be concerned about that. But I can't help it. "I spend two more weeks and then you'll let me leave?"

He sighs loudly through his nostrils, glancing away from me for a moment as he brings his glass of wine to his lips again. His cheeks hollow out as he sips some in, and as he swallows, I hear it go down audibly all the way from where I am standing. "Yes, Anastasia." He licks his lips slowly. " _Just_ two more weeks and then I'll let you go, as I previously said. I _meant_ it."

I still don't understand _why_ it has to be two weeks exactly, but I drop it for the time being. If I keep at it, it will just be like flogging a dead horse, and he'll get annoyed with me. And all things considered, I can't have him annoyed with me right now.

"Well, I _hope_ your being honest." I try to sound playfully threatening, and I think my voice works with me on this. He glances down into his wine glass, sloshing the contents around slightly with flick of his wrist. I think I see a flicker of annoyance in his expression- just like I had been hoping to avoid. "I'm sorry," I say contritely. "I won't talk about it so much anymore."

"It's just..." He hesitates, bringing his gaze back to me. He looks... contrite. "I'm a man of word, Anastasia. I've _always_ been."

"Well, I _hope_ your right." I glance down at the red wine in my glass as well, striving for something to say. "I think I should thank you again for tonight," I say hesitantly. "For... taking me out for a drive. I really enjoyed it, especially being outside and getting to walk around. I guess it just gets... cramped always being up here in your apartment." I don't mean anything by saying it, or maybe _I do_? Maybe I am trying to make him feel guilty? "Do you think we could do it again, seeing as tonight went so well?" I ask hopefully.

Christian lifts up a hand, scratching around his beard with his fingers. "I suppose we could. It would have to be at night though, as you know. For... safety precautions."

"Night or day, _whatever_ time you want. It doesn't matter to me so long as we _do_ get to."

I have an inkling that talking about this is irritating to him. He purses his lips over the rim of his wine glass, tilting it and his head back, draining it all down in three impressively fast gulps. "I'm going to go take a bath, and then I might think about going to bed."

"Why a bath?" I ask, unable to help myself. "Isn't a shower quicker?"

I only see his face properly once he turns from the sink after rinsing his glass out under the tap several times. "I don't know why, Anastasia," he sighs loudly. "I suppose I have always preferred a bath. I never have showers." He shrugs at me. "Why are you even asking me this?" I know he thinks my asking is ridiculous, and maybe I know it is too. I have no idea why I am even bothering to ask about this.

"I don't know. I guess I'm just... trying to make conversation."

"I like to be in complete control over the temperature of the water, of how... hot it goes."

"But couldn't you just use your hand to gauge how hot the water runs, though? I mean, if you work early in the mornings, wouldn't a shower be quicker?"

"Probably it would be quicker, sure. Maybe you're right on that." He takes in a deep breath. "But after what happened... even just simply looking at a shower tends to bring back certain memories for me. _Difficult_ ones."

Instance he says that, I feel automatically stupid for making such a big deal about it. _Oh God, of course._

 _What happened with what his mother did to him as child, how she forced him to stand under the running hot water... How he got badly burned._ It is really no wonder why he would prefer baths then. _How insensitive of me. How could I not have seen that answer coming in advance?_

"Of course. I'm sorry," I get out in a rush apologetically. "I wasn't thinking."

He holds out a hand towards me, "No, no, Anastasia. It's... fine. Oddly enough, I don't mind speaking about it with you." He starts removing his leather jacket, folding it up hastily. "So if you need me, you know where I'll be..."

"Okay. Have a nice... bath then."

My heart swells with adrenaline when my eyes focus on the key card he has left on the kitchen table. He's forgotten about it. Could I manage to get out while he is in the bathtub?

"Oh, I almost forgot," he mutters under his breath, coming back into the room. "Mustn't forget this."

He snatches the lanyard off the table, and quickly, I avert my eyes to my glass of wine, pretending I hadn't noticed. If my heart was a balloon filled with air, it would look utterly crushed and deflated right now.

"What, Christian?" I try to act offended as I glance up at him, forcing a smile. "Do you _really think_ I'm going to try to escape again?"

"Yes, that is _exactly_ what I think you would do if I left this in here." He holds my gaze, his head tilting slightly at an angle, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He's amused. He finds it so humorous; I can tell. "I'm not going to be foolish again. Just like that little stunt you pulled-"

"- _Stunt_?" I repeat, choking out the word, my hand that is gripping the wine glass shaking. "Really, _what else_ could I do? What do you expect, when you have me here, Christian? I think its reasonable enough that I would have tried _at least_ once, don't you think? Yet you dare to call it a _stunt_ like it was some kind of childish game between us when really it is _my life_ that you are tampering with here?"

I'm not even sure how it happens. I'm aware of my hand shaking uncontrollably with the sudden outburst of anger billowing through me, yet I somehow don't feel the loosening of my fingertips until its too late. The wine glass slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor, and about a million shards of glass shatters and red wine spills everywhere on the tiles.

A crippling sense of despair hits me as I begin to sink to the floor in an effort to immediately clean it up; a mingle of both apologies and pleads bursting through my mouth all at once. I feel _that close_ to erupting into tears, because I don't know what is wrong with me. _Why can't I get things right? Why can't I just not drop things and make it easier for him to not get angry with me?_ It's my haywire emotional state though. I'm everything, all at once, and surely it can't be healthy to be in a constant state like this.

I'm just about to get on my knees to clean it up frantically when suddenly he has an arm wrapped around my waist, pushing me back gently.

" _Don't_." Christian speaks emphatically through clenched teeth. He is breathing strenuously as he rushes to grab the bin, dragging it closer to all the mess I have made on the tiles. "Just _don't_ go anywhere near it, Anastasia. You don't have any shoes on and we don't exactly want any recurrences of you getting any shards of glass stuck in your foot again like before, now do we?"

His mild reaction makes me feel even worse when he opens the lid on the bin, keeping it open so that he can dispose of the shards of glass easier as he gets down on his knees, starting to pick pieces of glass up carefully with his fingers.

"I'm sorry," I get out miserably. "I... I don't know how that happened. I didn't do it deliberately."

He turns his head to look up at me, with nothing but a soft expression on his face. He nods once, concern in his gray eyes. "I know you didn't do it deliberately," he says softly. "Just keep back so you don't get cut. You don't have any shoes on."

"Yeah, and I wonder why? It's because _you_ won't _give me_ my shoes back!"

 _Why isn't he mad? Why does he look so... so anything but angry with me?_

He doesn't even _sound_ angry with me- which was, honestly, what I was expecting. He seems unworried by all the mess that he now has to clean up, all thanks to me. All he had seemed to care about, was me getting hurt or cut like I had before that one time. And it is _so much_ harder to take than him yelling at me right now; I wish he _would_ get angry, because him being like this... so concerned for me and speaking in such a gentle, calming tone, it makes me feel even more wretched than I already do.

"I'm so sorry, Christian," I mutter again truthfully. "I _didn't mean_ for it to happen. I... I'm sorry I ruined one of your wine glasses."

"It's not important."

 _Isn't it, though?_

"Why... _why_ aren't you ever mad at me?" I splutter in confusion. " _Why_ are you being so forgiving?"

He glances up at me behind his shoulder as he tosses a particularly large chunk of glass into the bin. He shakes his head, squinting up at me, bewildered. "Do you _want me_ to get angry with you, Anastasia? Is that what you _want_?"

"I... I don't know." Pain suddenly crosses his features and he glances down at his left hand, his fingers trembling. I think he's managed to cut himself, yet the wine looks too similar to blood to really tell. "Did you just cut yourself?" I ask in concern, moving forward. "God, I'm _so_ sorry. I-"

"- I said, it's fine," he interrupts me impatiently, just using only his right hand now to hurriedly pick the rest of the glass up. Once all glass seems to be gone, he stands, reaching in the sink for the sponge to wipe up all the wine.

"I can wipe it up," I offer hurriedly, standing closer. "Please, it's my fault. Let me at least wipe it up..."

"Fuck," he hisses under his breath, glancing down at his hand. I see it then; A thin stream of blood starts to run from his finger, downwards towards his wrist. It looks really painful. _God, poor thing._ "All right then, Anastasia. I'll let you wipe up the floor while I go take care of this for a second. Just be mindful of anymore glass that I've missed. Watch your feet."

As Christian rushes away into his bedroom while cradling his hand carefully towards his chest, I feel a weird ache in my chest. I just cannot get over how kind he acted towards me then, how... more so concerned he was for me rather than himself. While what he is doing to me is wrong and I despite him on some level, I can't help but be grateful for him, too. I had expected him to raise his voice at me, and yet, he hadn't. I am so confused.

After a few minutes of furious wiping, the red wine doesn't stain fortunately. It comes off easily, leaving no mark of any spillage whatsoever.

When Christian returns to the kitchen, he is holding a hand-towel pressed to his hand. "Good," he says, pausing behind me to glance at the floor. "It didn't end up marking it." He sounds pleased.

"Yeah, I guess not." I stand, wringing out the sponge in the sink. "How's the hand?" He lets me come closer to look at it. He peels the cloth off slowly, showing me. There is a lot of blood, and it makes me feel both queasy and terrible that he cut himself due to me.

"It will heal fine." Without thought, I take his wrist carefully in my hand, evaluating the cut at a closer distance. It doesn't look too deep so hopefully he is right about it healing.

When I glance up at him quickly, I see him watching me, his gray eyes scrutinizing all parts of my face for some reason. His pupils are dilated, his breathing shallow through parted lips. I realize he must like me clinging onto his hand, and I let go quickly.

"I'm going to go take a quick bath now."

"Thank you for not getting angry with me. I really _am sorry_ that I broke one of your-"

"-Stop apologizing," he mutters quietly, the annoyance showing in his tone. "It was _just_ a wine glass. And besides, _you_ are _a lot_ more important to me than an easily replaceable wine glass."

 _I'm more important to him than a wine glass?_

"I'm going to go take a bath," he says again, and this time, he actually does. I watch him leave into his bedroom again while I shove the bin back into the place it was earlier, various emotions overwhelming. I don't know _what_ to feel.

When I glance at the time on the stove, it is past midnight now. It's late and I feel like sleeping. Maybe then all my battling emotions will settle in the morning?

I head slowly into Christian's bedroom, hearing the tap stop running in his bathroom. He closed the door and yet, it doesn't seem to block out any sounds. I hear the water sloshing as he climbs into the bathtub, the fan on the ceiling going. I don't know whether he expected me to sleep in his bed with him again tonight, but I decide not to bother asking. I pull off my clothes, leaving on my bra and underwear just like I had last night when he insisted I should.

I try not to think so much about what I'm doing as I pull his bed-sheets down, sliding in.

Maybe I've begun to accept the fact that here, in his house, I'm every bit as lonely as he is. It's probably how he ultimately wants me to feel, but I think I will feel better sleeping beside someone, even if its _him_.

I sit up against the headboard, waiting for him to come out. I have no idea what he will think once he sees me in his bed, but if he doesn't want me in here like he had last night, then I can easily go up the stairs into the other room.

Once I hear the water go down the drain through the wall, I sit up straighter, my heart racing with nerves. Then I hear the fan shut off in the bathroom and then the door opens. Christian emerges from the bathroom, barefooted, with no clothes on aside from boxer shorts. His skin is still slightly wet, his hair especially. A bandage is wrapped around his hand from his cut.

I feel my heart leap when he stops suddenly where he is, staring at me now that he has noticed I'm in his bed again. I hear him swallow loudly. "What are you doing in here?" he asks in a stunned whisper.

"Oh. I can get out and go upstairs to the other bed if you want?" I ask tentatively. "I just... I assumed you would want us to sleep in the same bed again like last night?"

"You _assumed_?"

I feel myself tense up as I go to slip out of the bed. Maybe I've misread everything? I don't even know why I decided to get into his bed in the first place.

" _Don't_ get out, Anastasia," he says urgently, breathing heavily. I pause, sitting back down on the mattress when I peer up at his face nervously. He looks so... desperate, so horrified at the thought of me leaving his bedroom. He opens his mouth, then he closes it up for a second, like he is battling to find the right words to say it. "You assumed _right."_

As he sits on the bed, turning on his side to climb in under the sheets, his back faces me. I can't help what I do.

I reach out, running my fingers down a patch of scarring in the center of his back, curious more than anything. It feels bumpy, yet smooth, the third degree burn scars. I'm so lost in it that I startle when he whips his head back abruptly to look down at me, his eyes wide in shock. A shaky exhale escapes his mouth as he stares at me for a long and hard moment critically.

I let my hand fall down, clenching my fingers tightly as my blood runs cold. "I... I'm sorry," I get out desperately, unnerved by his expression. "I was just curious about how it felt?"

"Curious?" He says it like the word alone leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "How can you even tolerate _touching_ it, let alone _looking_ at it?" He sounds so disgusted, so... filled with self-loathing. It's heartbreaking, how strongly he feels over it. It just doesn't make any sense.

"It isn't that bad? I don't see why you are so paranoid over it. It really isn't that bad at all, Christian."

" _Isn't_ it?" A hollow, wry laugh escapes him. "It's _disgusting_ , _that's_ what it is. Even at the only foster home I went to, even _she_ couldn't tolerate it."

 _Foster home? She? What?_ " _Who_ couldn't-"

"-The family that were considering adopting me before my family now did. The _mother_." A despairing noise erupts through his teeth. "When _she_ saw it, she never looked at me the same ever again. She never wanted me after that; No, she _never wanted_ a son _that_ fucked up that he had scars all over him. She wanted someone _perfect_." His eyes glaze over with moisture, hurt sending his rough and low voice shaking. "So _don't_ say it isn't bad or repulsive when it _is_. I've seen how people react to me. I _know_ what it is!"

"Well, how they reacted to you, it-" I start to say but he cuts me off.

"- I just want _something good_ to happen in my life for once!" He hits the empty pillow next to him with a hand in all his desperation. "It's why I _want you_ to be able to love me! I just _want_ someone to look at me for once and not be disgusted or... or to _accept me_ the way I am! I _want to know_ what it's like to have someone to come home to at the end of the day...someone that I can share things with." His eyes search my face desperately, apprehensively. "I'm so fucking tired of being _alone_! You just... you have _no idea_ how fucking tiresome it gets." I think I _do_ understand but I don't say anything.

I feel my throat tighten as I lay down, resting my head on the pillow. As he lays down too, moving over to switch off his lamp, I find I can't sleep after what he says. My mind won't seem to stop going and his words replay in my head over and over. I feel so... sad. So depressed.

 _How can one person possibly go through as much as he had when he was younger? How can a person possibly go through so much turmoil and suffering and still be alive?_ I realize it's truly no wonder he has turned out the way he has; Due to the way people passing through in his life have responded so negatively towards him, it must be the reason why he has such a negative opinion on himself.

All the self-loathing, the loneliness he must feel, its due to how people treated him in the past and because he probably keeps his distance due to fear of what people will think of him.

He's had a dreadful, lonely and miserable life. And while that won't pardon what he has done to me, and what he _is_ doing to me... I can't help softening up to him more and more.

 ** _Hope this one was okay? Thank you so much for being so kind, and I apologize for taking so long to update. I'm sorry if it was boring too or if its a drag, I'll try to make it more exciting- watching movies, playing games, etc. I want Ana to teach Christian how to be more kinder to himself and how to accept who he is, scars and all, before he lets her go. Just like the Beast or the Phantom, with how one gesture of love made them see good and they committed the ultimate act of goodwill._**

 ** _At least in this chapter they are getting a bit closer :) Also, sorry if Ana is annoying in my portrayal of her. I think, realistically in this situation, anyone would be in warring mental states about their captor. People react differently in traumatic situations. Thank you for your output though, I really do love knowing your thoughts!_**


	17. Chapter 17

_**I own nothing to do with 50 Shades. Just a fan here.**_

 _ **Hey guys, I'm sorry for taking awhile to update the story. I've just started studying Business at college, so it may take me a bit to update due to that from now on.**_

 _ **Thank you so much for your kind reviews, they mean the world to me! Hope you enjoy this one and hopefully, it's progress for these two. :D I love reading your opinions and thoughts, so please do feel free to keep them coming! X**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 17**_

I turn on my side, tucking my hands beneath my chin, holding them clasped near my throat. That's when he moves.

I startle as the mattress depresses once he slides closer, shoving one of his legs between mine, hooking his foot around my ankle, though I can't seem to help it. It just seems to be an instinctive reaction. He goes to put an arm around me, sliding his bandaged hand slowly down my leg under the sheets before settling it on my thigh, where it stays. Fortunately after that, his hand doesn't move anywhere else.

The hair on his chest tickles me, his body heat surrounding me. Just like last night, I feel so confused when I start to relax against him, my muscles softening out of their tension. Why do I enjoy having him sleeping next to me so much? Why do I like the fact that he is laying so close that his natural heat radiates from him to me?

Maybe he has turned me insane? Or maybe all the sad stories he has told me, about his childhood and his miserable life, has effected brainwashed me to the point where it is impossible to feel little else but sympathy for him? Well, eighty percent sympathy and twenty percent resentment for what he has done to me.

"Tell me about your life," I hear him mutter imploringly in the darkness of the room.

I brace myself, preparing myself mentally for it as I move, sitting slowly onto my back. It's impossible to see him in the dark, but I think I only just can see the faint outline of him in the shadows. He is sitting up with his chest against me, half out of the sheets, his eyes glimmering in the middle of the outline of his head as he stares down at me.

"What things about my life?" I ask cautiously.

"Anything you want." I feel the movement as he shrugs his shoulder. " _Everything_."

"My life is really boring."

"So is mine, but... it _isn't_ boring to me, not _your_ life. I want to hear it."

I decide to start with the basics, which are the easiest things to talk about. "Okay, well. I was born in Montesano, Washington. I... I don't remember anything about my real father, because he died a couple of days after my mother gave birth to me."

"How did he die?"

"A... marine accident during combat training, I think. I never really asked my mother for the full details, because it didn't feel right to ask her. All I know is that he died while serving the marines."

"And you don't have any memories of him at all?"

"I don't. Not a single one of them." No matter how hard I try to think back to my father during my earliest childhood, I always come up blank. It's only my stepfather Ray that I can seem to remember. "I think maybe I was too... young to remember him. My mother showed me photos sometimes, though. But even by looking at the photographs, he didn't seem in any way familiar to me."

I feel a sea of anxiety deep down when he bends down, touching his warm lips and chin to my shoulder, his beard scraping against me.

"Do you wish you had met yours?" I ask tentatively. "Your real biological father, I mean?"

"Sometimes," he murmurs in a low, quiet voice. "I used to wonder a lot about how he would be like. Would he have a great job? Would he... eventually come for me? Did he even know he had a son? When I was in that foster home I was just telling you about, there was awhile there that I would fantasize about meeting him constantly."

"About him taking you away from the foster home and getting you to come live with him?"

"Kind of, sure. I used to believe that... _surely_ , _whoever_ my father was, he couldn't have been half as fucked up as my bitch of a mother was." A sharp, shaky intake of breath escapes him. "But months went by and I realized it was all just a stupid boy's fantasy or... wishful thinking. If he had cared about me, then he wouldn't have ever left me alone in her care. He wouldn't have allowed me to be alone with her, to let her... treat me the way she did." There is such anguish in his voice, such anger. "Anyway, so _tell_ me _more_ about your life. Tell me what you did during the days."

The way he can change subject so easily disarms me. I really have no idea why he cares to know so much. "During the days?" I press my lips together, thinking. "Okay, well. I'd wake up and make the bed. Kate would wake and we'd make each other coffee and talk about things."

I fall silent, waiting for him to either tell me to stop, that it isn't exactly what he wanted to hear. Or that I should continue and keep going. He does neither, though. He just remains silent, listening. I really don't understand what he wants to hear. Why does he want to get me to talk about this?

"Then if I have to go to work, I would. I work at Clayton's Hardware, as you know. Then I'd finish and drive home or I'd do grocery shopping beforehand if we needed anything." Christian's words come back to me. "Remember what you said?"

"What did I say?"

"That it was tiresome? Well, that's exactly the word that I would use to describe my life. It's boring and mundane. It's repetition, most of the time, but... I think that's what life mostly is all about. It can be boring and tiresome, and you _aren't_ the only one that feels that way." I say it to try and console him, yet its impossible to know if it has worked.

But just even thinking about Kate or driving my car to go grocery shopping though, just talking about my day-to-day routine of what I did _before_ this, it's a poignant thing to me.

It makes my heart ache with longing. _What I would give to have the chance to do it all again, to be normal again. To have a normal life again, instead of being cooped up inside his penthouse..._

"And so _what else_ did you used to do?"

I feel uncontrollable moisture gather in my eyes, my throat tightening. "Please, I don't think I want to talk about this anymore, Christian. Just _don't_ ask me to anymore."

"Why don't you want to talk about it anymore?" I can tell by the sound of his voice that he's confused. _Jesus, does he even need to ask though?_

"I just don't. I don't even understand why you would want to know in the first place?"

Maybe it's a game, though? He is trying to rub it all into my face that he has all the control, that he is taking all my power to do normal, everyday, banal things away from me.

"I want to know because I'm interested, Anastasia. Quite frankly, _everything_ you do interests me."

 _Everything I do interests him? Why, though?_

I try to scoot away from him on the bed, only its too difficult. His fingers tighten over the skin on my thigh, digging into my flesh, pinching me, warning me not to move. So in defeat, I lay back down in resignation, fighting the urge to mourn for my old life, the one I had before he had taken it from me.

 _I'm so fucking tired of being alone... You just have no fucking idea how tiresome it gets._

Those were his words. Christian feels lonely, and obviously he has for a very long time. And now, he has made sure I feel it too, in return. We are stuck in his penthouse together, where my moments of human interaction have been reduced down dramatically to only include him.

I'm sharing a bed with a man beside me, a man so solid and warm and real in flesh and yet, how can I possibly feel so alone and depressed the way I do right now?

How is it possible to feel so alone and isolated, and yet, be so close to another human being?

* * *

I'm brutally awoken by Christian's alarm buzzing in my ear the next morning.

When I roll on my back, forcing my eyelids to open, I find him standing as he switches the alarm off quickly. I close my eyes shut when I see his head turn in my direction. I wait until I hear his bare feet scuffle against the floor, signalling his movement away from me. Then I open my eyes again, blinking heavily, the early morning light panning in through his curtails bright and vivid.

He goes into his bathroom and combined walk-in wardrobe, shutting the door behind him gently to not wake me as he does, _as always_.

This morning is different, though. I don't feel like staying in bed.

Instead, I throw the sheets off me, getting to my feet. I hiss at the cold air in the room, gathering all of yesterday's clothes hurriedly before slipping back into them. Curling my arms over my chest to ward off the frigidity in the air, I pad quietly towards the door.

He hasn't left it completely closed and, unable to resist, I move my hand, pushing it open a fraction with the tips of my fingers to peer through the crack.

Christian stands by the mirror in his walk-in wardrobe, stepping into his trousers; the piece of paper still stuck on the area where the reflection of his face would normally be, with his height. Yet when he bends his knees a little, I can't help watching his reaction as he accidentally sees himself.

I hear him sigh loudly, unhappily, through his nostrils as he pauses with what he is doing, meeting his reflections eyes in the mirror below the paper. His face falls into something similar to repulsion, to hatred. I've never seen the way he has responded to the sight of his own face before, and it's both simultaneously sad yet intriguing.

"You _ugly_ fuck," I hear him mutter under his breath in disgust. "Look at you." He raises a hand, raking his fingers through the side of his beard. "You _ugly sick_ fuck. What is _wrong_ with you?"

The way he talks to himself pierces my heart, though I hate feeling this way about him. I don't think I have ever met a man who has hated himself _so much_ , who is so... _unkind_ to himself, so mean.

I clench my hand into a fist, knocking once to let myself be known.

His eyes widen in alarm as I finally push my way in, and I notice the way he scurries to find a fresh button-up business shirt in his closet to wear to cover his back up.

"I didn't expect you to be up?" Christian says, a little awkwardly. I know that he knows that I heard the way he talked to himself.

"Sorry. I just... I heard you talking?"

He stares at me while sliding his arms into his shirt, moving his hands to start doing the buttons up. His fingers keep fumbling and missing the buttons, and I know he hadn't wanted me to hear. I think I even see him redden a little. I've gotten him nervous.

"You can go back to sleep if you want, Anastasia?" I know its what _he_ wants me to do. He avoids my gaze on purpose, fixing his eyes on his trembling hands as he starts successfully fastening the buttons up. "I didn't mean to wake you. And besides, I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to myself."

"You know I read something once?"

Christian tilts his head slightly as he blinks at me slowly, perplexed. "Read what?"

"That you should talk to yourself the way a best friend does, Christian." It's probably silly, what I'm saying. But I hope the meaning isn't lost on him. "Would a friend of yours ever say to your face that you are ugly or... or sick?"

He glances away from me for a moment, considering. When he looks my way again, I see his face has softened a little with humor. "Well, I would certainly hope not. They wouldn't be a very good friend if they did, would they?"

" _Exactly_. So... so _maybe_ you should start talking to yourself as you would a best friend then?" I'm not sure if my words have had the intended positive effect, but he seems in more better spirits. His grey eyes shine with mirth as he selects a jacket to wear. I think he is even trying to stifle back a smile, and it makes me feel surprisingly pleased. "You promised me that you would shave your facial hair off," I remind him, remembering the conversation we had previously days and days ago.

He did say that he would shave it off when I had told him I didn't go much on facial hair on a man. Yet, he hasn't done it like he promised.

He nods once, returning his gaze to me. "I did say I would shave it off for you, didn't I, Anastasia?"

I notice that humor there is immediately gone. What is in it's place instead, is nerves. I can tell he is nervous by the tension there in his eyes, the reluctance that radiates off every inch of him.

"Yep, you _did_. So _why_ don't you do it now?"

He hesitates, dropping his chin down towards his chest, avoiding me. "I... I really _don't_ think I can."

" _Why_ can't you?"

"Because I..." Christian pauses, his breathing going louder, yet shallower. It's as though he's having trouble speaking. When he forces himself to lift his head and meet my gaze, he looks troubled. "It's like a mask. It... it makes me feel safe, as ridiculous as that sounds."

"Safe from what?" I think I already know just what he is trying to say, what he is even about to say, and yet, perhaps cruelly, I want him to say it and admit it out loud himself.

"Just with my..." He hesitates again, and then he lifts his bandaged hand, pushing his fingers under his chin, showing me. "With the scar. I don't want people to have to see it, Anastasia."

"Well, you promised, remember?" I feel kind of guilty, forcing him. But I know its for his own good. This is me, trying to help him. "You said you were a man of your word? So why can't you just do this one little thing for me?"

"Fine. _Whatever_ you want."

Though I know Christian doesn't want to do it and I'm basically forcing him into it, he caves in. He walks past me, throwing the jacket he had selected to wear for the day onto the unmade bed. Then he strips out of his shirt so he doesn't get any mess like shaving cream onto it either.

Plus, I sort of _do_ want to see what he looks like without all of that facial hair that he hides behind.

Christian grabs a razor out from the bathroom drawer, as well as shaving cream. Then he runs the tap, bending down, splashing his face and wiping around his forehead and his throat. His breathing is still far too heavy, and I realize that this is almost torture for him.

Maybe what he was saying was true, in that he sees his beard as a mask to hide at least one of his physical scars?

He uncaps the shaving cream, squirting a big dollop into his uninjured hand before working it into a lather and smearing it all over his face. Then he picks up the razor, his hand trembling. It occurs to me that he hasn't fixed the mirror above the sink, so he can't see.

"I can help do it, if you like?" I offer, though I haven't helped shave a man's face before. I do shave my legs and beneath my arms regularly. Well, I had during my normal, old life. I figure shaving a face is similar to shaving legs, right? It's just that you have to be a bit more careful to avoid any nicks to the face.

"You would do that?" Christian breathes, anxiety in his eyes.

"Sure, it would probably be easier for me to do it, seeing as you can't see without a mirror. Can you?" When I step forward to take the razor off him carefully, he moves his hand away for a second, staring into my eyes deeply. "What?"

I try not to show my discomfort when Christian slips closer in front of me, putting his face inches away from mine. He inspects my face closely for a moment, searching for something. It makes my stomach clench. "I mightn't know what you are trying to do or what your game is, Anastasia, but cutting my throat and making me bleed out isn't going to make you get out of here any faster." His voice comes out so low, that I probably wouldn't have heard him properly if we hadn't been standing so close the way we were.

"Is that what you think? That I'm just offering to do this because I intend to murder you then escape?"

" _Are_ you?"

"No, I'm not, Christian." And it's the truth; Deliberately cutting him hadn't even once crossed my mind. "I just... I meant what I said before. I think you would look better without all that facial hair and I know, _afterwards,_ despite how... daunting it may be to you, that you'll feel better about yourself as well."

"Fine."

Christian hands me the razor carefully, then he puts down the lid on the toilet seat, sitting. He glances up at me apprehensively before lifting his chin, baring his throat to me. The closer I get towards his skin with the razor, the more anxious I feel for some reason. I need something of him to hold onto, something to ensure he keeps absolutely still.

I reach out, hesitating for a moment to touch him in case he gets the wrong impression. Then I decide I just don't care; It's only for the sake of making this easier. I slip my fingers through his hair, grabbing a fistful of it, pulling slightly. Christian makes a low, gruff noise at the base of his throat when I force his head up higher, his eyes clenching closed.

The corners of his mouth curl upward, like he doesn't mind a bit of aggressive touching. He definitely does seem to like me touching him, maybe _even a bit too_ much. When he reopens his eyes slowly to look at me, I see his eyes look darker, his pupils more dilated somehow. But pushing his uneasy reaction aside, I focus on my main task at hand.

As I start gliding the razor slowly up his throat and over his chin, the scar becomes more visible. It truly isn't bad at all; It's just a thin, faint line. Certainly nothing to be completely paranoid about. Halfway through, making a path with the razor up around the side of his jaw, the malicious and scary thought comes to me.

I think its his comment that has planted the seed of an idea inside my head, though.

I imagine myself actually doing it; Making a sudden, vicious move, slitting his throat, cutting him open with the sharp edge of the razor. I imagine his eyes popping open in fear, in agony, as he tries to staunch the flow desperately by covering his hands over the incision I've made. Him gurgling, the blood squirting out and spraying all over the walls like in horror movies. Leaving him right there to bleed. No more two week time limit to leave. No more waiting or being forced to be around him. I could make my escape then. I could actually be free. Calling it an act out of mere self defense would be true.

"Are you almost done or _what_?" His voice brings me back down to earth, and immediately, I feel sickened with myself for letting my mind wander so horribly.

I force myself to meet his gaze as I inspect my work. Christian holds himself stiff, hardly even breathing except for quick exhales through his mouth, like he is petrified I am going to slit his throat. Yet the mere malicious thought alone makes me feel revolted.

"Yep, I think it's all done now."

I can tell he is relieved when he sighs loudly, standing from the toilet seat. He runs the basin, cupping water to splash it over his face again to wash the remaining bits of shaving cream free. He spends a long moment patting his face dry with a hand towel, though I suspect he is doing it on purpose to delay having to show his face to me. When he finally does turn to let me look at him; his grey eyes squinted slightly in anxiety over my reaction, it's like someone has kicked me savagely in the gut.

He thinks he is ugly. Ugly is the very last thing I would describe him as. While I admit with some reluctance that he had looked rather handsome still even before with the facial hair, now without it, I can see him so much clearer. _Every_ part of him. He looks like a completely new person almost, yet still so familiar. And younger; Without the facial hair he looks at least three years younger.

"What do you think?" he asks reluctantly. "I feel so... exposed." Christian lifts his hands, running his fingers along his now beardless chin, his jaw.

I find myself having to glance away quickly to hide my reaction out of fear he will read in my expression just how good I find he looks, something that may encourage him. I move towards the sink, rinsing his razor. "You look very... handsome, Christian," I admit breathlessly. "It brings out all your features more. And your eyes seem... brighter than they were."

"And what of the scar?" he asks uncertainly. He inhales in and out heavily. "I have never liked people seeing it?"

"It's only the tiniest scar. And besides, some women actually find scars on men very attractive. It makes the man look more... handsome and rugged somehow."

"Oh, really?" When I turn to look at him, he has his eyebrows raised. "You think scars make a man look more ruggedly handsome?" He sounds skeptical of that.

"Sure. I mean, _a lot_ of women do, Christian."

"Even _you_?" When I force myself to glance up at his face, I see he is watching me intently, almost hopefully. There is desperation there, in both his eyes, his face. "Does it make me seem raggedly handsome enough that you think you might be able to learn to love me?"

 _Oh, God._ We were getting along so well. We were having an honest, nice moment between ourselves. I just wanted to encourage him to start treating himself more kindly, to see how... attractive he was and to hopefully get him to no longer doubt himself. Why did he have to go and ruin it all by saying that?

"Don't make me have to answer that," I whisper under my breath, purposefully turning away. I can't look at him, I can't stand it. "You _know_ I can't answer that, Christian. You _shouldn't_ ask things like that. Anyway, I guess you better think about heading to work, huh?" Eager to escape and be left alone now that our little moment is soiled, I rush out of the bathroom, not daring to even so much as give him one last look.

 **Hope this one was okay? Sorry if it was a let down.** **Thank you guys XX**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hey guys. Firstly, I apologize for taking so long to update the story. I've been struggling with depression over what happened with my dad, I know it's probably silly, but I can't help it. It's given me lack of motivation to write but hopefully you'll stick by me while I battle my way through it and hopefully, the story won't suffer due to that. :)**

 **I hope it isn't terrible, it's been difficult to start writing again, so please do go easy on me if it is, I'm sorry.**

 **Thank you so much for your kind reviews and the alerts I've received, I am so flattered by how kind and compassionate you all are, even despite being on the internet and miles away, your support is so wonderful! Thank you! That said, on with the story...**

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

I'm just finishing up with dinner when the elevator dings open and Christian arrives in from his day at work. The excitement I feel over his return, it's frustrating, like my bodies betraying me. It's that I've been cooped up in the penthouse all day without any human interaction that's doing it to me. I miss him now, and I count down the hours until he'll be home, whether subconsciously or otherwise. Being alone in his penthouse the way I've been for the past two weeks- almost three- it's driven me crazy.

But I've just got one more week to go to get through this. One more week, and then I'll be released. I'll be free then.

Already, during the day, I've been thinking about what I will do once I'm out of here. I think I'll immediately go and see my mother, my stepfather. I haven't seen them for a while now, and I suppose being here puts everything into perspective; I haven't been a very good daughter in not seeing them very often. Once I get out, I know I'll never take my parents for granted ever again.

When he enters into the kitchen, I see he is holding a shopping bag in his left hand. He doesn't say anything to me as he sits it on the kitchen table. He turns his back towards me while he starts shrugging out of his suit jacket, and when he finally does turn to look at me, I feel my heart pick up rate in dread. It's still a shock to see him without all of that facial hair there, even although I was the one who sort of talked him into shaving it off in the morning. I just can't get over how much... younger he looks clean-shaven, how more handsome.

It's hard to think that he is a person capable of doing this to me, of holding me captive in his home- not that good-looking people can't be assholes, of course.

I force myself to speak while I stir the gravy I've made in the pot, making my voice intentionally brighter, "How was work?"

"Fine," he says simply while folding up his jacket neatly. He's so hard to work out; I can't tell whether he's actually had a good day or not, not that it should really concern me either way.

"How did it feel without the beard? Did many people at your work notice the difference?"

He gives out a loud sigh while he drapes the jacket over his forearm. "I got a few comments on it, Anastasia, yes."

"And so? Were they positive comments?"

"Yes, mostly positive. One of my assistants actually asked me to go out for coffee with her. It's something that's never happened to me in years, being asked out." I examine his expression carefully. He doesn't seem excited or pleased by that, strangely enough. He seems... indifferent.

"Then that's a good thing, isn't it?" I mutter, trying to encourage him. "What did you say? Did you take her up on the offer?"

He lifts a hand, combing his fingers slowly through his hair as he stares at me for a long moment. I have no idea what he is trying to say between the lines with that look, but I see the irritation building in his grey eyes, the annoyance at my words. I've annoyed him and I don't know how I even managed to. Maybe I'm overcompensating with being too meddlesome and overenthusiastic?

" _Of course_ I didn't take her up on the offer," he mutters under his breath, as if he believes I should have known better than to ask that. "And why would I?"

"Well, _why_ wouldn't you?" I don't understand what he is trying to say at all. "She obviously likes you if she bothered to ask you out for coffee? Doesn't that tell you that you aren't as bad as you think you are, as far as looks are concerned?"

Without another word or explanation, he leaves, striding off into his bedroom in a manner that seems weirdly angry. I know it's to get changed; I've been stuck here long enough that I know his entire routine. He comes home, immediately heads into his bedroom, and takes off his suit, putting on more casual clothes instead for the evening with me. I've got him all figured out now; Well, as far as his repetitive daily routine goes.

I don't understand his reaction though. Wouldn't he be happy that he got the attention he craves from someone so much, from this assistant at his work? I know he considers himself repulsive, but wouldn't that be reassuring to him, his assistant asking him out on a date for coffee together?

By the time he returns into the kitchen, dressed in a white button-up shirt and loose black pants, I have dinner prepared and ready. It's nothing all that exciting; just green beans, steak and gravy, but I love cooking. Cooking keeps me busy, and being busy is good. Busyness prevents me from getting too depressed and lonely, if I have something to preoccupy my mind with in that way.

"Do we want something to drink to go with it?" Christian asks while I'm bringing both of our plates over to the table. I lay the cutlery beside them, glancing behind my shoulder at where he stands in the kitchen. He holds the fridge open, peering in at the wine bottles.

"No, thank you. I don't really feel like drinking anything but water, but you can."

I sit in my seat, waiting for him to fix himself up a drink. He pours himself a glass of red wine then sits the bottle on the table, yanking the chair back loudly. As he sits, I wait for him to eat first, though I'm not even really sure why I'm bothering. I think I can just tell altruistically that something is off with him tonight. He's in a funny mood, and it automatically makes me feel tense and sickly nervous. Mostly, I'm worried that he has changed his mind, that he'll go back on his word about letting me leave in another weeks time.

"Did you not have a good day at work?" I ask apprehensively, picking up my own silverware once he starts digging in, slicing up his beans.

"No, it was fine. Like every other normal day."

"Do you like her?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity. "The assistant that asked you out?" I kind of wish he would end up liking this assistant, so that he would forget all about me. He would probably let me out quicker that way, if he did.

"To be honest, I've never thought she was all that much," he confesses, chewing through a mouthful of beans. He swallows before continuing, "She just seemed like all the rest to me. Just a shallow, superficial bitch."

"Well, _clearly_ she isn't one, is she? I think that maybe you should consider taking her up on her offer. It might... do you some good."

Christian places both his knife and fork on the plate, leaning back in his chair. He won't meet my gaze, not even when he stretches out with his hand to take a long drink of his wine.

"Just to get your confidence up, I mean."

He sits his glass of wine back down on the table, rubbing around his lips with his fingertips. Then he says, so quietly yet firmly that for a moment there I think I've heard wrong, "I want you to sleep with me tonight, Anastasia."

It throws me off for a second, the blood leeching out of my face. But hadn't I been doing that enough already lately? "Um, okay. Sure," I whisper, confused. "I guess I'll sleep in your bed again tonight. Fine."

Christian doesn't elaborate or say anything else. Once he's completely polished off his dinner and his glass of red wine, I stand to collect our plates. My plates still half full, but I don't think I can stomach any more of it. I really wish I knew why he is acting so different tonight, though. It makes me feel stressed out, because I have no idea what's going to happen.

I catch him out of the corner of my eye as he stands, rolling up his sleeves on each arm past his elbows. "I'm going to go play for a while," he says, though I don't really understand what he means by that.

I think I get his meaning immediately when, instance I start washing up, I hear the lilting music from his piano drifting off into the kitchen. I'd heard him play it once before, and I can't pretend I haven't noticed how good he is at playing it. He could very well play professionally if he wanted to, because it sounds amazing. Amazing, but... depressing. As I listen to the lilting notes of the piece he is playing, I feel like I'm at a funeral parlor or something. The music, while hauntingly beautiful, its dark and melancholy.

When it stops abruptly, making my ears tingle with the sudden silence in the penthouse, I stiffen when I hear his voice call out to me. "Are you done in the kitchen, Anastasia?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Come into the living room. Oh, and bring the shopping bag on the table in with you."

I scrunch up the dish towel, wiping my hands dry, before approaching the shopping bag that is still sitting where he placed it on the kitchen table nervously. I have no idea why he wants it at all, or what it even is. My curiosity getting the better of me, I peer into it, just to check and see for sure that it isn't something he intends to hurt me with. Given his peculiar mood ever since getting home, I wouldn't put it past him, and I don't want to take my chances.

The thing inside the shopping bag looks harmless, though. As far as I can tell just by standing on tiptoes and peering inside the bag, it looks like some type of material or fabric. Clothing; maybe even a gift for me. He can't possibly hurt me with a piece of clothing then, unless he intends to strangle me with it.

I grab the bag by the ribbon handle, finding him still sitting at his piano. It's dark in the living room, the only source of light the domed lamp he switched on near the wall. It bathes all of the room into an eerie, shadowy yellow glow.

Once I meet him near the piano, he stands, stepping over the bench with one leg, then sitting again, astride it with his legs on each side so that he can halfway face me.

"I brought you something on the way home from work."

"Really? You brought me a gift?" The surprise in my tone isn't fake, it's completely real. I hadn't expected him to get me anything. "Why? You already got me the _Tess_ books and they were expensive enough?"

"Open it," he murmurs almost breathlessly, ignoring me. "I want to see what you think." Just like how he was with the _Tess_ books, I know he's practically on pins and needles to see my reaction to his gift. He's staring at me eagerly, both hands perched on his thighs as he waits.

I just get it over with, despite having some fair idea on what it already is. It's clothing.

I shove my hand into the bag, pulling it out. The fabric feels soft and sleek and satiny on my fingers, luxurious. He leans up to take the bag from me, holding it while I shake the fabric out, lifting it up to see what it properly is that he's bothered to buy me this time. My stomach sinks and I feel my heart pick up pace furiously, thudding against my rib-cage with trepidation, as I make the mental connection into what the thing is exactly.

It's a satin silk chemise, something you wear to bed. The sleeves are elbow length, with white lace trimming. The bottom of the garment, the hemline, is lined with white lace detail too. It doesn't seem too revealing, at least; The neckline is wide so he probably wouldn't see much of my cleavage area if I chose to wear it, but looking at the length of it, it hardly looks as if it'll reach my knees.

 _Oh, god no. He's brought me something to wear to bed with him, something flimsy and racy. What am I? His fucking clotheshorse to parade around in the skimpy clothes he has picked out for me?_

Overwhelming emotions seem to hit me all at once. Fear, annoyance. Nerves over what's to come and what he means by buying me it. God, why did he buy me this? Surely not just to be nice? This is the sort of stuff a woman's partner gets her to wear to bed when they are sexually intimate, I think. Is that what he wants? Is that the point he is trying to make?

"Wow," I whisper, unable to think of what to say. I can't even begin to know how to react properly in the way he probably wants. "You... you brought me something to wear to bed with you?"

"Do you like it?" His voice is so quiet, so hopeful.

"Sure, it... it's very nice, Christian." I have no idea if he hears or even notices the shaking of my voice, the tight strangled intonations I'm making.

"Then I'm glad. I saw it and it made me think of you. I thought that you would look very beautiful wearing it."

My hands shake uncontrollably as I take a step back, holding it up to my body, a forced smile on my lips as I glance at him. Half of his face is obscured in the dim lights of the room, but I think I can see the quiet appreciation gleaming in his eyes as he runs them over me, enjoying what I'm doing. Yeah, definitely a clotheshorse.

"You'll have to go put it on," he suggests contently. "Wear it to bed."

As I leave the room, acting like an eager and ditsy girl to try it on for him, I hear him start playing his piano again while I head upstairs into the bathroom reluctantly to change into it. I can't help noticing the music he is playing this time as I shut the bathroom door, staring back at my wide-eyed, panicked reflection in the mirror; It isn't a morbid, sad melody like before. No, now it's more bountiful, more cheerful.

All partly due to my reaction to his gift.

Once I change out of my jeans and T-shirt, sliding into it, I inspect myself in the mirror, my stomach churning in disgust. It's really far too short than I would have liked; It looks like something sexy- like something a woman would wear in order to seduce her boyfriend, husband- the material light, slippery, and comfortable against my skin beneath it. The only thing I like about it is that it hides my cleavage, and that it isn't too revealing. I turn around on my side, picking at the ends of it with my fingers apprehensively. It shows the back of my thighs. I could do with it being longer in length, but I really have no choice, do I?

But God, what does this mean, in him buying this type of thing for me? What does he expect from me? What does he want? My mind doesn't even want to acknowledge what I know it means in him buying me it, because it isn't something I even want to dare contemplate right now.

I would feel content just standing around in the bathroom, hiding away from him forever, but I know I can't do that. He'll get pissed off and demand I come out, or he'll come upstairs and start looking for me. Inhaling in deeply and bracing myself, I step out of the bathroom, switching off the light. Piano music assaults me again and I hadn't realized how cold it is in his penthouse, until now. It's the lack of clothing, of how... bare the back of my legs are.

I curl my arms around my waist in a way to hopefully get myself to stop shivering as I pad back downstairs barefooted, clad in the chemise he brought for me. I find him sitting where I left him at his piano, his skilled fingers and hands dancing over the keys in a rapid, constant rhythm. As I stand to the side of him, still shuddering, he glances up towards me, his eyes raking down my body now that I'm wearing his gift. It's impossible to see what he truly feels on the sight of me wearing it; It's too dark.

"Does it look okay?" I ask, still standing hunched over with my arms folded across my stomach. Christian stops playing his piece abruptly, the music coming to a sudden and dramatic end. "Is this how you hoped it would look like on me? Does it live up to what you imagined it would, in your little twisted fantasy world of me?"

He doesn't say anything, he probably doesn't even realize I'm being half spiteful; He simply stares at me, looking me over. I think I almost hear his breathing go shallower in the ringing silence surrounding us now that he has stopped playing again.

His silence gets too much for me, so I tread backwards slowly, moving further and further away from him and his piano. "I'm just going to go outside and stand on your balcony for a bit," I say, the first thing that comes to mind. I think what I mostly want to do is be alone for a few minutes. "I don't think I've properly seen outside when its dark."

I slide open the door, stepping out, my bare feet slapping against the concrete. My shaking gets even worse as I lean against the railing, lifting both hands to grasp onto it. I feel my nipples harden and stand erect through the bra and chemise as I look down over the city of Seattle of an evening, the wind thrashing my hair around. It's even more colder outside, yet I can't bring myself to care. I feel so degraded over what he brought me. While it feels nice to wear, it's just wrong.

Seattle at night is such a beautiful view to be seen. I can see little cars, as small as ants, far down below on the roads with their headlights lit up like tiny dots. Even some of the tall skyscrapers are still lit up, filled with evening activity. I suck in a deep breath, swallowing in the frigid evening air in gasps, flexing and unflexing my fingers from around the cold railing compulsively.

I want to be home, I realize, with such profound aching longing in my heart. I want him to let me go right now. I want to spend more time with my parents. I want to see Kate. Most importantly, I wish so badly to be free out of this penthouse, free of _him_.

I feel like I'm on the verge of suffocating when I see a shadow dance and fall on the ground beneath me, reflected in the lights from in the kitchen. He's come outside, and I can tell. I hear his shoes scuffling against the balcony floor with every move he makes. I sense, rather than feel, Christian coming to stand directly behind me.

He brings up a hand, resting it near mine on the railing beside me. Then his other hand curls around the railing, his arms closing around me on each side, making me a prisoner confined to where I am standing, stiff and straight as a nail, against the balcony railing.

I fix my eyes on his right hand, barely inches away from mine as he grips the railing, his knuckles straining white. I feel his breaths on the back of my hair, tickling me, moving the strands with every exhalation he makes. He slides his shoes so that they are on opposite sides of my bare feet, my little toes scraping against the smooth leather. The fabric of his trousers brush against my legs.

 _Fucking help me. Help me, help me, help me._

"The reason I declined her offer was because I don't want her," he breathes, using his chin to start nestling it against the hair on the side of my face.

"You don't want her?" My voice embarrasses me. It comes out almost like a wail, like I'm being throttled. "Who, Christian?"

"The assistant at work." He bends slightly behind me, rubbing his chin against me, the side of his jaw. The trembling grows even worse but I don't believe its even from the cold evening air anymore. It's due to him, all him. The end strands of my hair part with the movement, and whether he intends for it to be purposeful or not, I feel the warmth of his chin on the bend of my shoulder as he nuzzles it into my flesh.

 _Help me._

"She isn't who I want."

"Who is it that you want then?"

 _Help. Anybody._

"You don't need to ask." He uncurls the fingers on his right hand from around the railing, moving it away, and then my stomach muscles spasm uncontrollably when he slips his hand into my hair. He plants a soft kiss into the bend of my shoulder as he twines several strands of my hair between his fingers, pulling it back, removing it away from my neck and skin. Not in a rough way exactly, because it isn't painful, but carefully, gently. "You know precisely who it is that I want already."

 _Me._

He moves the hair away on the side of my neck, baring my throat to him. And it's like I can't even function properly, like I cannot remember the basic way of breathing, when he starts kissing around my throat in different places. I don't want him to be doing it at all, but it's as if my body refuses to move. I'm rendered immobile, my muscles no longer performing correctly to do what they want- what they should.

When he parts his lips slightly, the tip of his nose prodding into my skin with every hot, open-mouthed kiss he lays on me, as if he's ravishing me, tasting my skin, something else happens, something weird and confusing; something that shouldn't be happening considering the circumstances. Something inside my belly- different innards or intestines or something- start to feel heavy, to feel tingly, as if they've been laying dormant inside for so long, and now he's reviving them, awakening them so that they exist.

My head is screaming no, for help, yet my body is doing something else and responding in an entirely other separate way completely. It's bewildering, confusing, and most of all, terrifying. How can he make me feel like this? How can I be feeling like this when I shouldn't be, especially towards someone like him?

Someone who is obviously sick, who is delusional. Who is doing this to me.

"You were right," Christian continues hoarsely, his words half muffled in my skin. "I _do_ feel better without the beard now. No one even seemed to... to notice the scar at all. Or even _if_ they did, they didn't mention it." Despite everything, I can't help feeling immense joy for him, that he's finding out that what he feels about the world- that it can be so judgmental and cruel- isn't necessarily true.

It comes as both a relief and a disappointment when he stops what he is doing, shifting slightly to glance at the side of my face. I have no idea how I look, but I hope my expression isn't betraying me.

"I want you to sleep with me tonight," he says, repeating his words from before.

"I know." My eyebrows furrow in confusion. "You already said that."

"Not to..." He hesitates, and when I force myself to turn my head around to look at him, the uncertainty to say what he's going to tell me is almost palpable. He meets my gaze, his eyes shining in the dark as they scrutinize my face. "But not for sleeping, Anastasia. Afterwards but... not straight away." His breathing goes deep and shallow, desperate even, as he runs his hand slowly down the sleeve of the chemise, the back, and the front of it, my tummy knotting. "I think it's why I brought you this. What you did for me this morning... what you _made_ me do in shaving the beard off, in making me show my face to the world without my mask on, the scars, it's given me so much confidence, more than I ever imagined possible for me. I... I want to thank you."

 **Hope this one wasn't terrible or that my lack of motivation was showing. I would love to know your thoughts, obviously this is an unpleasant and unfortunate situation for Ana to be in, but I hope you won't hate me for writing it. Is Christian still creepy with the way I've written him? This will be a happy ever after (I've gotten most of the plot planned out) but I am not sure what you'll think. I guess I'll have to wait until the final chapter is posted to see what you think, I suppose. :) TY!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Firstly, I own nothing to do with 50 Shades obviously. Just a massive fan.**

 **Thank you so much for your reviews and the alerts I have received. I am so flattered and grateful.**

 **I hope this chapter is okay and isn't horrible. I know some of you won't like the decision I've made on where Ana will go, so I'm sorry. But it's needed, and the outcome will surprise her very much. :)**

 **Please do be kind. And I apologize if this chapter is a disappointment. I'm still in a strange mood so if it's getting darker or terrible, I'm sorry!**

* * *

 **Chapter 19**

 _Oh, my God._ As Christian's words fully sink in, I feel an invisible hand has wrapped its way around my throat, fingers choking me, suffocating me. _He's finally gone and said it out loud, what probably has been his true intentions all along in having me here. He wants to have sex with me. It's why he bothered to buy me the sexy bed-wear. Not just for my benefit and with my comfort in mind, obviously._

I move away from him, putting a safer distance between us. Once I feel safer and that my personal space is less invaded, I lean back, resting the side of my hip against the railing as I curl my arms around my waist, hugging and protecting myself from the frigidity of the evening air. The railing cuts into the flesh of my hip, the coolness of it slicing through the thin fabric of the chemise, and I shiver.

I really don't see why I am reacting the way I am; So shocked and confused, as if he's suddenly sprung something unexpected and unpleasant onto me. Down down inside, there was a part of me that was waiting for it, a part of me that was even already preparing for this, both mentally and physically. A part of me even feels completely resigned about the whole thing.

I think I had established early on for awhile now that there was a high possibility there that his reasons for doing this was because he was infatuated with me. I just was hoping it wouldn't get to this point, and it's _so hard_ to not react in a mean, judgmental way.

I'm a virgin and I've never even properly made it past first base with someone. Kissing and all that, I'm fine with. The only actual boyfriend I've had was one in freshman year- and it was nothing serious. It only lasted two weeks before I found out he was dating another girl in freshman year while being with me as well, which is something that is notorious to happen in high school.

"Okay," I manage to whisper out after a very long moment of silence, my voice hoarse. I have no idea what to say at all. I certainly never expected that, while being stuck here confined to his penthouse, we would ever be having a conversation regarding our sexual lives. Honestly, asking about Christian's sexual life is the very last thing I care to know about. But I try with tremendous effort to be as unassuming- and as neutral in reaction- as possible. "Have you even been with a woman before?"

To my relief, I can tell I'm not the only one embarrassed by the subject. Christian leans his elbow against the railing, lifting a hand to rub his fingers up along the side of his face. It's as if he can't stand looking in my direction. Even if he did, it wouldn't make much difference anyway. It's far too dark and the light coming out from in his kitchen isn't strong enough to make any expression out to me, especially not with his back facing it.

"What do you think?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know," I admit, bringing up a hand to rub it back and forth over my goose-bump ridden forearm for warmth. "I've never really believed that you could ever tell simply by looking at someone despite what people say..."

"Well, do you _really think_ that I ever could?" I stare at him blankly in the shadows. I'm not totally sure what he is trying to say, but all I know is that there is a hint of shame to his voice, of mortification. He grabs the collar of his shirt with the fingers on both hands, shaking his shirt out against his skin extravagantly in a way that he probably intends to be meaningful. "Do you _really think_ any woman has wanted me over the years?" His voice goes harsh with bitterness. "That they could stop being shallow for even a single second to look past what my body looks like?"

"Are you saying that you-" I start slowly, uncertainly, afraid to offend him.

A hollow, soft chuckle escapes him. "I'm a virgin, Anastasia, yes," he mutters, not particularly proud of that. "I'm a twenty eight year old virgin."

I find it difficult to not let my surprise show. My eyes widen."Really? You haven't-"

"- I haven't." I realize he's being completely serious.

Despite not once thinking we would ever get to talking openly about this, that I ever could be talking about this with him... it's astonishing to know that he is every bit as inexperienced as I am when it comes to having sex and being intimate with someone, regardless of his mental instabilities and all that. How can he not have had sex with someone yet? And he's definitely handsome enough, more handsome than a lot of guys out there.

"H-how?" I'm stuttering, I'm that in disbelief. "How come you've never managed to-"

"-You _know_ why." The tremulousness of his voice makes my heart ache. He sounds so vulnerable. He must be able to see my face better than I can with him, because he adds, "Don't look so surprised. I'm sure you got that impression right from the very start."

"I didn't. So you've never had sex? You've never even... came close to it?"

"I've came close to it once but... it fell through."

"How come?" Despite everything, I can't help that I'm curious. Even if I shouldn't be.

"There was this one woman." He hesitates, lifting a hand to rake his fingers through his hair. I know he's biding his time, trying to figure out the easiest way to explain. "We met at a nightclub, and this was about...three or four years ago. She noticed me and we got to talking. It seemed as though she really liked me, and we were getting along so well."

"So then what?"

"So I took her back here. To my house." He turns around to look through the glass of his penthouse, shoving both hands into his trouser pockets. "I offered her a drink, we talked some more and I made her laugh. Then gradually... one thing lead to another and we moved into my bedroom." It feels sort of wrong and deviant, listening to his intimate story, but at the same time, I'm interested in hearing. "We were taking off our clothes, fooling around and kissing. Then she... she felt me. She felt how... uneven the skin-tone was on my back."

He sighs loudly and shakes his head, and now that I can see him better thanks to the light shining out at him from in the kitchen, I see how troubled he looks, how ashamed; his mouth pressed into a tightly compressed line.

"She felt the burn scars on your back?" I guess.

"Yes," he says in a barely audible voice. He turns his head to look at me, nodding his head once. "She noticed the burns."

"And she didn't want to have sex with you after that?" I find it so impossible to believe how that could have truly been the case, that this woman would have been turned off sex just because of a few burn scars on someone's back. I think it's callous of her and mean. It isn't like he had any say about having burns on his back, is it?

"That's right." He gives out a short laugh, but it sounds pitifully fake. "She decided she didn't want to follow through on having sex with me, as if the scars on my back made me into some kind of fucking cripple. I think that was one of the most hurtful things I've ever been through; that someone would react that way, that I was that... abhorrent to her that she didn't even want to sleep with me." Just by his tone alone, I can tell it still upsets him. I guess sometimes it's easier to remember being rejected than any other positive experiences a person has in their life.

"Then I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "I'm sorry that you had to go through that. How she reacted like that... just because of what happened to your back, it... it's wrong, Christian. It was her being shallow-minded." I almost laugh at what I'm saying. I'm beginning to sound like him, with how he goes on about shallow, superficial bitches. But that woman, she _was_ a shallow, superficial bitch for doing that to him.

"I can't say I blame her. I don't like the scars myself. If I _could_ and if that option was available to me, I'd get surgery. I'm not entirely sure that I would have reacted any differently if it had been me in her situation, if the roles had been reversed."

I realize then, just how much I've been getting to know Christian over the weeks of being stuck with him in his penthouse. It's not like I have any choice not to, sure, but I know a lot about him; More than I've ever really learned about anyone ever before.

And despite everything that he is doing to me, I know he's a good person at heart. He's been through a lot of terrible and unfortunate things in his life and, due to that, it's made him so terribly messed-up and psychologically damaged. I really feel he needs psychiatric help, but at the same time, he just wants somebody there for him for once, someone to listen to him and talk to him; Someone to understand him and show him what he craves the most, which is attention and love. Acceptance. I loathe him for what he is doing to me, because its inhumane and restricting, yet I feel sorry for him, too.

"What about you?" He's eyeing me speculatively.

I don't know whether to actually tell him the truth or not. But he has practically bared his soul to me, hasn't he? "We're pretty much the same," I confess, not meeting his gaze. "I've just kissed a guy, but... I haven't been with anyone either."

"Not even with José?"

It's as if he's hurled a bucket of ice-cold water into my face. _How does he know about my good guy friend José?_

 _"_ José? How do you know about him?"

"I looked at your Facebook page and noticed how he seemed to be writing on your wall a lot. He would tag you in a lot of posts and you'd write back and forth to each other." It's true, and José does have a habit of writing on my Facebook page. But we're really close friends, and isn't that what friends do in this day and age? God, how did he even find my Facebook page? He's been stalking me though obviously. I guess it really shouldn't surprise me that he somehow searched for my Facebook account page.

"José's one of my closest guy friends, that's all. He's an aspiring photographer and we've known each other since freshman year."

"And do you think he knows that, Anastasia? That you consider him just a good friend?" The singing sarcasm in his tone grates at me. "I've seen the way he is on your Facebook page. He doesn't seem all that friendly to me? If anything, it seems like to me, that he wants to fuck you. He's like a pathetic dog, begging and whining for your attention. Not that I blame him, of course..."

"You _know nothing_ about my friendship with José, so don't you _dare_ say that about him and try to cheapen it," I spit out defensively under my breath. It isn't the first time he has said something rude and insulting towards one of my friends. He did that to Kate as well, calling her shallow and air-headed. "And _how dare_ you snoop through my Facebook page!"

" _Surely_ you can't be that naive. You must know how he-"

"-José and I are just good friends. Nothing more, nothing less. We've never done anything like have sex together, and I don't think I _ever could_ do anything like that with him. I see him as nothing else but a friend. He's almost like a brother to me." I take it back about feeling sorry for him, about deeming him to be nice and good despite it all. He needs more than just psychiatric help. He needs to be locked away. "What else have you been looking at on my Facebook page?" I demand in annoyance. "All of my photos, maybe? My Friend list?"

"I looked at your photos and read your statuses," he admits breathlessly without shame. "I guess that's the negative thing about Facebook and social media, isn't it? If you don't set it on private, you'd be amazed at what a mere stranger can find out about you and what photos they have access to seeing." It's like Christian is both castigating me for it and using it as a point to excuse what he's done in snooping around, invading my privacy. "I just wanted to know more about you," he explains in defense of himself. "I just had to."

"So _what_? Should I be flattered that you've been stalking me on Facebook? Is _that_ what you're saying? That I should feel humbled that you went to such effort to learn things about me by tracking down my social media account?" I can't get over him.

It's such an enormous invasion of my privacy, whether my Facebook page be open to the public or otherwise. _It's just like with my phone; He's taken my phone! He still has it and he's probably texting Kate everyday, making up excuses as to why I'm not back at the apartment while pretending to be me!_

"You need help," I mutter sourly before I can stop myself.

"No, I don't," he disagrees, his voice broken. "The...the only thing I _need_ is _you_."

 _God, why can't he let me go?_

"You _think_ you need me, but you _don't_ , Christian. I don't even know why you did this, why you chose me. I'm nothing all that special at all, and whatever it is that you think I am, it's an illusion. You just can't see beyond your fantasy version of me because your sick. I'm _not_ this great person that you think I am. I get shy around people I don't know to the point where I stutter and talk about stupid things. I can be clumsy. I'm boring."

"Nothing about you is boring to me."

"You _really do_ need help. Christian, you do. Even with what your doing, _right now_ , it... it's not normal." His words come back to me, choking me. "Is that the whole point of you doing this to me? Was that your whole goal all along?"

"What?" he asks softly. I've lost him. He's confused.

"With what you want of me, with how you... you say you want to sleep with me. Was that your whole reason for doing this to me all along?"

" _Of course_ not." The sheer frustration in his tone forces me to turn and look at him. "I already _told_ you, Anastasia. I wanted for you to get to know me, and I... I wanted to get to know you. I _wanted_ you to give me a chance." I turn away from him, numb, when he paces closer towards me, his shirt brushing up against me. He's standing so close that I feel him, all against me. He slips both hands on my shoulders, clenching down with his fingers gently, and my belly muscles tighten. "I chose you because I _knew_ you were so different from all the rest of them. And I'm _right._ You _are_."

I'm not different though. I'm like everyone else. I know I am, it's just the delusion speaking. You can't rationalize with someone like that. I would know. I've been trying to endlessly ever since first waking up to discover that he brought me here.

"Can you help me with something then?" I ask nervously, my voice barely above a whisper.

"What?"

"I'm speaking hypothetically. But I... I have a friend, and there's this guy, and he's so desperate for love and lonely and damaged that he has kidnapped her." I'm not entirely sure what I'm attempting to do, but I suppose this is my way of separating myself from the situation. "She wants to be free and she doesn't want to hurt the guy. She doesn't think she ever could hurt him, not seriously like murder him, not even in a way to defend herself, because it just isn't the way she is as a person, it goes against her strength of character."

I don't know if Christian gets what I'm doing, but he plays along. "Go on, Anastasia."

"He said he'll release her after a weeks time and she wonders if... if there is something she could do to speed up the process. What can she do? What would you advise?"

"That she have patience," Christian murmurs.

I swallow dryly, my heart racing. "But what would have to happen to speed up him into letting her go earlier than in a weeks time? Would there be anything she could do?"

Christian doesn't answer; He just remains silent behind me, his fingers stroking and plucking at the silk of the chemise.

I realize I have to say it. "If she... slept with him, maybe? Would he decide to let her go earlier then?"

I feel the dread coursing through my veins as I press my lips together and wait.

Then, after what seems a long moment of consideration, Christian says in a strained hoarse voice, "He might let her go earlier than planned. He just... he wants to feel what its like to feel loved." Though I'm reluctant to, I force myself to turn around, to look up at him. His gaze holds mine, soft and anxious. "He wants for someone to look past how he looks like for once, enough to... to touch and caress him with kind and gentle hands." He runs each hand down my shoulder, my arms, before clasping my hands in each of his, grasping gently. "Someone who won't flinch or recoil at the scars. Someone who doesn't treat him as though he's different than anyone else, as though he's... disgusting."

I'm filled with indecision then. I know what I have to do, what must be done next. It feels as if it'll kill me, though. Cliche as it is, I've always believed the first time- having sex- should be experienced with someone you love, someone that you are in a healthy, committed relationship with, someone you trust wholeheartedly to go all the way with. But does that even really matter anymore?

"Okay." The single word escapes from my mouth carelessly. "Okay. I'll do it."

I know Christian is beyond pleased; He inhales in through his mouth deeply, suppressing a smile. His gray eyes are bright, fervent. Then he lets my hands go, and he turns, moving back inside swiftly.

"Wait until I call you into the bedroom," he calls back at me from inside.

 _Shit, what have I done? What have I agreed to?_

I pad my way inside slowly, twiddling my fingers around, playing with them in trepidation. My body has started shaking again, but its definitely not from the cold air in the room. It is purely from nerves and dread, nothing more, nothing less. I really don't know if I can do it, it would be like lying to myself. Betraying myself, even. But he isn't so bad, and talking to him and getting to know him... it's not hard to feel pity for him. He had looked so relieved and and silently beatific outside when I agreed to it. Like a beaten child finally getting the comfort and reassurance it needs from its mother.

"It's ready now," I hear Christian call, and my stomach churns.

Is this really what I've been reduced to? To degrading myself and doing this?

My feet slap against the floorboards along the hallway towards his bedroom, and just as I reach his doorway, my bare toes mush into something light and wispy. I glance down in confusion, and I feel myself soften, as if my body was at first a bowstring wrung tight, and now, with the sight of the petals, it's been loosened.

Rose petals. He's littered and scattered deep red rose petals on the floor.

I don't even dare let myself consider it romantic and sweet- though it is despite the circumstances, the effort he is going to. There is nothing romantic about this; This is a job, a task, and my task is to comfort a mentally ill person. Make him feel loved, accepted. Show him that the scars on his body, the burns marring his back, are nothing. At least that's something that I believe, and that side of it won't be lying. Scars don't matter or make a person horrible to look at. It's their heart that matters the most, what's inside of them. And despite all of his issues, I know he's just misguided and lost.

 _I'll be fine._

 **Thank you so much for reading and the alerts/comments I've received. Thank you for them and I appreciate the time you've taken to read my story. It's both shocking and flattering, the response I've received.**


	20. Chapter 20

**I own nothing to do with Fifty Shades.**

 **Thank you so much! Hope you enjoy this one! Love to know your thoughts no matter what they say, good or bad!**

* * *

 **Chapter 20**

When I enter the bedroom, I find Christian sitting on the bed, his back facing towards me on the mattress. His entire body seems stiff and rigid, and I wonder if he's just as nervous and afraid as I am. By the looks of his posture though, I'm almost confident that he is.

"This is nice," I say anxiously, looking down at all the rose petals he scattered all along the floor towards the bed. "The rose petals are pretty."

He doesn't say anything to me as I step closer towards him into the room, undecided on what to do. Where do we go from here? Will he make the first move or is he waiting for me to instead? I end up sitting on the edge of the bed opposite him, my heart hammering in my chest. We sit for what seems over ten minutes on opposite sides of the bed, neither of us speaking, his back still turned to me.

"Do you want me to-" I begin uncertainly, and it's then he finally speaks, cutting me off.

"I don't want you to have to feel as if you are being compelled to do this." I don't understand how he can say that. How can I not feel compelled to do this? Everything about this, me being here, every conversation we have, it is forced and contrived because of what he is doing to me.

"So what? How can I not feel compelled, Christian?"

"If you don't want to do this, you can say."

 _How can I say no? He won't let me, will he?_ "Okay. And what if I do say no? What if I've changed my mind?" I stare at the back of his head, waiting for his answer. "Will you... rape me or force me into it?"

Finally, I get a reaction. His head whips around his shoulder so that he can look over at me, irritation blaring in his gray eyes. "Is that what you think I would do if you made it clear that you didn't want this?" he asks in a low voice, his tone offended. "Do you _really think_ I'm the type to do something like that to you, Anastasia?"

"Well, _you're the type_ of man that can hold a girl prisoner in your penthouse. So yeah, _pardon me_ if I feel that there _is_ something inside of you that makes me feel you are capable of raping me."

"I'm not like that," he mutters strongly in disgust, as if he believes the thought alone is despicable. "And with what you said before... when you asked if doing this would speed up me releasing you, if that's just why you're doing this, then you can just forget it. I don't want your reasons for agreeing to this to be about that. I don't want it to be just because your looking for a way to escape, that you're using this as a bargaining tool. I want it to be because you actually want it yourself."

I almost laugh hatefully at his words. _How can I possibly want to do this with him for any other reason than for it being a way to be released sooner? Could he actually believe I'd want to do it because I like him in some way? That I'm attracted to him sexually enough to?_ Getting to know him these past few weeks, I realize that yes, that is probably what he hopes for.

"Whether you believe it or not, _you're the one_ in control here, Anastasia," he goes on when I don't say anything. "I want you to know that. Anytime, from this point forward, no matter when, if you want me to stop then I _wil_ l." He sounds sincere enough, but I'm not sure I can totally take him on face-value about that. "Frankly, the truth is that... I couldn't live with myself for doing this to you if you're only doing it simply as a way for me to let you go sooner. If you sit back, lying there passively, forcing yourself to pretend that you want it with me, then... I don't want that. I couldn't live with myself afterwards so I want you to be sure."

 _How the hell can I be sure about this?_

I try to evaluate my feelings despite how terrified and jumbled I feel. I do feel pity for him, and I _do_ find him attractive, which I know I shouldn't. I know it wouldn't be completely intolerable, having sex with him. And with what he is telling me; that I'm the one in control, that I call all of the shots, it _does_ make me feel somewhat better about it. He's telling me that- at any point during it, if I decide I don't want to all of a sudden- that he'll stop immediately, no matter when, whether it's halfway through it or near the end.

But I also know my own personal beliefs. I don't feel its right to have sex with someone unless you are in a healthy, committed relationship with them. It is just how I have always been; I could never be like those people at college who have hook ups and flings, like my best friend Kate who goes from one guy to the next. I need something meaningful. Losing your virginity is an important thing, something you never forget. You hear people say that you never forget your first time. Do I really want to remember my first time in this way? Trapped in some guy's house, under coercion? Doing it out of pity rather than in an act of love?

"So what your saying is that... if at any point I don't want to go through with it, then you'll stop?" I ask, just to be sure.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying to you."

"And _I'm_ in control? I say what happens next and what doesn't?"

Christian shifts sideways on the mattress slightly so that he can look me head on. I see the anxiety reflecting in his eyes, the hesitation. He's every bit as fearful as I am, maybe even more. For the first time, I realize his body is shaking. "Yes. _You're_ the one in control when it comes to this. _You_ say what goes, and I'll be respectful of that, even if you decide you don't want to."

I take in a deep breath, then let it all out. "Do you have... protection then? I'm not on the birth control pill or anything like that obviously."

He turns away from me for a moment, reaching for something on the drawer beside his side of the bed. He holds an unopened packet up to me. "I brought these tonight after buying you your gift," he says, a bit awkwardly. "Condoms. There was... a lot of varieties to choose from. As someone who hasn't brought them before, I'm sure you can imagine just how overwhelming it was." He tries to make a joke, one to lighten the tension and atmosphere in the room, only it doesn't quite work on me, it doesn't touch me.

I really don't know how to feel about that- about him purchasing the condoms as if he was automatically expecting I would do this with him- but at the same time, at least he's prepared and it will be safe. Getting pregnant with his child... It's a horrifying thing to contemplate on.

"Stand up and take off your shirt," I breathe tonelessly.

"What?" He thinks he's misunderstood me.

"You just said _I_ was the one in control. _I_ get to decide what happens. So stand up from the bed and take off your shirt, Christian," I repeat, trying to make my voice sound stronger.

He hesitates for a moment before getting to his feet, standing from the bed. He breathes out shakily through his mouth loudly before he begins doing what I say, in starting to unbutton his shirt. He keeps his head low, his chin almost touching his chest, as he struggles to undo every button. He's definitely so much more anxious than I am about this, I realize; His hands are trembling so badly that he keeps fumbling with the buttons. Halfway through, he turns to look at me, his forehead scrunched.

"I don't expect you to force yourself to-" he begins in a strained, tremulous voice.

"I'm not forcing myself to do anything," I say, and it's true. I want to see the burns on his back again. "I want to see them."

He sighs loudly, hanging his head again once he pulls the last button loose. He's breathing so heavily that he reminds me of a person on the verge of an anxiety attack. In a strange way, it's endearing. "Really, Anastasia. You don't have to force yourself to look at them, let alone touch them. I can keep the shirt on, if you'd like?" I can tell that's what he wants the most, to be able to keep his shirt on, to keep his back concealed from me. He fears I'll be like that woman he almost had sex with that time, the one who was turned off by how his scars felt beneath her hands. "Whatever makes you comfortable?"

"I want to see them, Christian," I repeat.

He pulls his shirt off, folding it quickly before placing it neatly on the armchair near the wall. He won't dare look at me, and suddenly his hands are restless; He combs his fingers through his hair, then he starts wiping both hands down the fabric of his trousers, as if his hands are sweaty. It's as if he can't stand still under my scrutiny.

"Sit back on the bed," I say softly, patting the mattress with my palm to encourage him.

Once he finally does, he sits with his back facing me again, too terrified to even meet my gaze. I can see them now though, at least. The burns that he is so ashamed and insecure of, the ones that tell of his unfortunate and cruel childhood. It's overwhelming, how I feel when looking at them. I feel anger at his mother for doing such a thing. I feel sadness for him. I feel myself constantly wincing at how painful it looks, at how painful it must have been for him. But they don't look that terrible at all. There is nothing disgusting about how his back looks, certainly not enough for someone to recoil in disgust. And if someone did recoil in disgust, it's narrow-mindedness, lack of understanding.

I find myself wanting to touch him, but I don't know how he would feel. Last time I had, he hadn't reacted very well to it. "Can I touch you?" I ask hesitantly. "Would... would you mind if I touched you? Or does it hurt when people do?"

He turns back to look at me, but he won't look into my eyes. He focuses on a spot in the middle of my forehead, his eyes wide in alarm, in disbelief. "You really want to touch it?" he whispers, unbelieving.

"I do. Will it hurt if I do, like I had before that night?"

"No, it doesn't hurt, Anastasia. It hasn't hurt for a long time."

I reach out with my right hand tentatively, each finger splayed. As my fingertips brush against the top of his spine, downwards over the scars, he turns his head away, facing the wall again. His skin feels almost leathery and dry in a way, but warm. Like warm dry leather. You can tell his skin was melted off pretty severely from the boiling hot shower water his mother held him under in, in the way the complexion is uneven, in white, pink, and brown patches.

"How long were you in the hospital for?"

"For almost over a year," Christian says, barely above a whisper.

"Wow, almost over a years a very long time."

"I think it was the severity of it. The doctors, they... they wanted to make sure it would heal properly. I had to have skin grafts. I think that's why its so uneven and thick in places. From the... the skin grafts."

"And how old were you?"

"Five. I was five, I think."

 _Shit. Five is such a young age to have to go through all that. And spending over a year in hospital at five, it must have been sheer torture._ I cup my hand over one of his shoulders, trailing it slowly down his back again, feeling the uneven lumps. "Can you feel me touching you?"

"Just only lightly. I can't... feel much sensation to it anymore in certain places." He makes a noise, one that sounds like breathless laughter, but his shoulders shake viciously. "I remember, after I was adopted, I was in forth grade and we were learning how to swim. It was the first time I had ever taken my shirt off in front of anyone at school. I was just wearing swimmers and I remember one of the young girls asking my teacher about it. 'What's wrong with Christian's back?' I heard her ask the teacher. 'How come his skin is different than anyone else's?'" He makes another laughing sound, his shoulders quaking. "Then she asked, 'Will my skin go like that when I'm older?' The teacher just told her it isn't nice to ask questions. She never told her the real reason why."

"That's just the way kids are, I think. They're just curious and don't realize what they are saying. I'm sure she never meant anything mean by it, Christian."

"I know. I don't blame her for asking what she did. But what she asked, it's always just seemed to stick with me." I hear him inhale in deeply, making a strange noise. It sounds like he is laughing but since his face is hidden from me, I can't tell for sure. "For awhile there, I went through a phase of believing I wasn't any different from anyone else. When your a kid, you just... you don't care what people think and you think your like everyone else."

I don't get why he feels he is different from everyone else, because he has burn scars on his back. It doesn't make him different from anyone else at all; Not different, or inferior. But I can tell that's how he feels.

"I think that whole perspective changed when I was eleven. We got a pool for Christmas- me and my older brother and my little sister. My father was recording with his camera all of us playing in it for the first time. When we re-watched it that night, I saw how... how I truly looked like to other people then. I realized what it was that made me so different, and it was my back and the burns on my skin. That night, watching the video of us playing in the pool we got for Christmas, I think it... it changed me ever since. It made me see who I truly was, and how I truly looked. And what I was and how I looked was... different from anyone else. From my brother Elliot, from everyone. I think that was when my confidence in myself started to dwindle completely."

"There's nothing different about you," I mutter, and I'm not lying. I mean it with all my heart, whether he believes it or not. "Just because you have burn scars on your back, it doesn't mean that you are different to other people. You may look different with your back, but... your _still_ like everyone else."

"But I'm not," he breathes unevenly. "And after seeing that recording, of how I looked, I'd been fooling myself. My mind was somehow... distorting the way I truly was, how I truly looked like and was perceived by others. I guess my confidence took a hit because of that. I started becoming withdrawn and... quiet in class. If a girl asked me out or implied that they liked me, I would always feel suspicious and didn't believe them. I started stealing alcohol from my father's liquor cabinet, I started being rebellious. Really, I think mostly, I felt... depressed. Like no one would ever be able to like me, to... _want_ me the way I looked." He inhales in deeply. "Just like that woman at the nightclub that I told you about."

"That woman at the nightclub, she... she was shallow for reacting the way she did," I breathe, feeling a strange rage simmer over me. I just cannot believe she did that to him and how she could be so cruel. "But also, maybe she was just shocked because she wasn't expecting it? Maybe she wasn't trying to be intentionally cruel or shallow at all? Sometimes people react badly because they don't understand or they... they feel uncomfortable, but they don't mean it to be cruel. It's just ignorance and not knowing how to respond."

Christian makes that noise again, that confusing silent laughing noise as his shoulders move. At least I'm assuming he is laughing. But when I move on the bed, swiveling my legs up onto the mattress and dragging myself so that I can see him better, I feel my heart spasm and seize up. He hasn't been laughing at all, and immediately I feel stupid for assuming such a thing. His cheeks are streaked and wet with shiny tears, his eyes red and filled with moisture. He hasn't been laughing at all. He's been crying, yet he probably didn't want me to even know.

His shame at crying in front of me is palpable when he drops his head, covering his face in his hands. Then the sniffling noises come again, and I don't know what to do, I'm helpless. How am I meant to comfort him? Was it me that said something? Did I hurt him while touching him? All I know, is that its depressing. I don't think I have ever seen a full-grown male cry before and it isn't very easy to sit through without feeling upset and emotional in return.

"I'm sorry," he breathes weakly after an excruciatingly long moment, his head still low, hands still covering his face. "I'm _so_ fucking sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" I ask in confusion. "Did I hurt you while touching you? Or did I... I say something wrong that made you upset? What?"

"No, you didn't do anything." He sniffles one last time, wiping his eyes before he brings his face out from his hands. He looks determined to stop crying in front of me as he sets his jaw, but he won't meet my gaze again. He stares down at his hands in his lap as he picks at the fabric on his trousers. "I guess I just... I'm being silly. It's just that-" He stops, breathing in deeply. "You're _so_ different. You _actually_ touch me."

" _You're_ not the only one with scars. See my little toe and the toe near it?" I feel a sudden intense urge to try and lighten his mood, and I bring my foot up on the mattress, close to his leg. "I have a scar on my toes on this foot."

He sniffles again and I see the slightest smile on his lips as he bends down to inspect my foot and the toes I'm mentioning about.

"I see it. What happened?"

"I was ten and I was riding my bike around the yard, and I wasn't wearing any shoes. My stepfather caught me and he yelled at me to come inside and put on my shoes, but I didn't listen."

I feel the muscles in my stomach clench when he starts running his thumb back and forth over the scar, that small smile still there. I've managed to lighten his mood and make him feel better.

"As soon as my stepfather yelled at me to put on my shoes, guess what happened? My foot slipped off the pedal and went near the spokes on my bike, and it took the skin off two of my toes and bled pretty badly. I didn't have to have stitches but I have a scar there now because of that. _And_ here." I turn my hand over, showing him the small scar I have on the side of my wrist, "Here, I opened a can of dog food and didn't realize the tin was sharp and it cut me, and now I have a scar permanently on my wrist, too."

He gives out a shaky laugh and it feels like mission accomplished.

"See? Scars are nothing to be ashamed of, whether they're big or small. They reveal stories about what happened in certain stages of a persons life."

"And what does mine reveal? That my mother was an abusive, crazy bitch?"

"Maybe it does." I lick my lips to moisten them. "But maybe it also reveals that you are strong enough and brave enough to overcome what happened in your childhood? Maybe, due to that, you should start being a little more easy on yourself?"

That small bit of humor there dissolves from his face until he looks so serious, so glum again. We're sitting so close, the heat of his shirtless body warming me in the flimsy material of the chemise he brought me. I don't realize until now just how close I'm sitting near him, the entire length of his arm from the shoulder downwards brushed up and sticking flat to mine in the short-sleeves.

I don't know what motivates me to do it until it happens.

Lifting up my hand, I caress the side of his face, his cheek, the nape of his neck, the soft curls of hair there. I see the surprise shining in his eyes before they clench closed, and a soft exhale escapes his parted lips as he leans into my touch. He hasn't been touched like this before, and that dawns onto me almost immediately. He's used to people keeping their distance and not touching him and, now that I am, gently, not abrasively like his mother probably used to constantly do with him as a child, he's leaning into my hand, basking in it. Fresh tears stream and course down his cheeks.

I realize, with such frightening clarity, that I actually want to do this with him. I want to have sex with him, because- _to him_ \- it would mean so much more than just an act of physicality. It will mean acceptance; someone demonstrating to him non-verbally that he is perfectly fine the way he is. Probably enough to erase his low self-esteem issues and negative body image and perception of himself forever. He's not bad at all, and I wouldn't consider him repulsive or unattractive. I'm not afraid of him, though I don't know whether I maybe should be. He doesn't frighten me and he hasn't treated me completely unwell. He's been kind and gentle. And maybe, though I hate to acknowledge it, there is a side of me that _is_ attracted to him.

As Christian reopens his eyes to peer at me, he leans closer with his face, his eyes falling to my lips. He twists with the lower half of his body and somehow, though I can't remember how I got there, I'm beneath him on the mattress, laid out with his knees on either side of me, my body beneath his with my legs hanging halfway off the bed. He props himself up with an elbow on the mattress, half on me, half off me, and I feel a surge of panic and unease race through me as he looks down at me, blinking slowly.

"Remember to tell me when, Anastasia," he warns me shallowly, and he brings a hand down between us, his fingers splayed as he begins rubbing his warm hand, palm-flat, up and down the fabric of the chemise that covers my stomach area. The panic grows even more intense with his actions, my intestines feeling as if they are forming little knots inside me, weaving together unpleasantly. He hovers over me, his face inches above mine. "If you decide you don't want to, even now, just tell me. I'll stop whenever you decide, no matter what."

He remains above me, not moving to kiss me. He simply stares at me and I stare back, watching his expression, the way the muscles in his throat twitch as he swallows loudly, his hand resuming its repetitive motion in rubbing my stomach beneath the chemise. I don't know if its the fact that he is allowing me to just lay there beneath him, that he isn't making any move and that he's practically showing me he's waiting for me to act first, or if its even due to the repetitive safe movement of his hand, but bit by bit, I feel that panic drift away and subside. I can tell he is holding back, that he is trying to be respectful and that he doesn't want to make any sudden, bold moves.

He's keen on showing me that, despite everything, _I_ am the one in control. I'm the one calling the shots here. He won't act unless I do first, until I give my permission by making the first move.

I'm not sure how long we stay there for in that position with him over me, my head resting against the mattress, his body over me, hand stroking me, but it starts to feel as though hours have passed. We simply remain as we are, drinking each other in, with Christian not daring to make a sudden change in movement. All I am aware of, is that I start to relax completely beneath him. There is no longer any tension there or any intestine-twisting knots inside my belly. There is just relaxation. Peace. A warm feeling in my chest.

"Say something," he finally speaks desperately, his voice raspy, guttural. "What happens now, Anastasia?"

I lift up one of my arms from where it rests on the mattress to touch and stroke the back of his arm with my hand, my arm and the bones feeling floppy. I feel the muscles in his bicep ripple under the strain of him holding back, and he closes his eyes again briefly at my soft touch.

"Let's just kiss for awhile," I murmur in a scratchy voice, because I'm still uncertain I can give myself to him, no less that I would even want to in this way, while he has me here.

Eyes still closed, he bends down slowly, his lips closing over mine, warm and soft and hesitant. That dread and panic floods throughout me again like a lethal injection, my muscles tensing, but after about fifteen seconds, I feel loose again and relaxed as I move my lips against his. He turns his head a fraction and then he catches my bottom lip between both of his, pulling slightly, sucking, and I can tell that he is putting all of his effort into this, into being attentive, into being good enough that I would want him.

He's probably been doing this his entire life. Not kissing, but overcompensating, trying to work really hard to better himself to make up for what happened during his childhood and the way he feels people view him.

He's succeeded in his business to have one of the most reputable companies in the world because he put in so much hard effort to try and be the best he could be. With kissing me, it feels like its no different. Christian releases my bottom lip, dragging his warm, slippery tongue around, probing at my lips in a strangely ticklish and sensual way. I slide my hand down his arm, feeling the puckered mark from the cigarette burn there as I go.

He closes his lips over mine again, removing his hand from my stomach to cradle the side of my face in his hand, stroking along my jawline and my cheekbone with tender, gentle caresses. Smoothing out my hair with his fingers, playing with the shell of my ear. My cheeks feel flushed and hot, and as our lips settle in a fast, urgent rhythm, I feel as though I can't breathe. He's swallowing all the breathes that escape my mouth, then he returns them back to me by panting against mine.

He's trying hard to show me he can be good at this, to put all his heart and soul and effort into it. And sometimes that's what a person wants in life. Someone who tries so hard to make another person capable of loving them.

 **Hope you enjoyed this one? Thank you so much for the alerts and reviews I have received, I appreciate every single one of them. Not sure what you'll think of this one. :) Hope it isn't cheesy. I like writing about characters and their emotions/feelings/what happened to them so I'm sorry if it's slow-paced. Christian will end up doing the right thing, and where they go from there, well, I guess that won't be revealed until the ending which is nearing fairly soon.**


	21. Chapter 21

_**Thank you so much for your kind reviews and the alerts I've received. They mean a lot!**_

 _ **Hope you enjoy this one!**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 21**_

When I wake the next morning, it takes me a second to process what had happened last night as I shift up onto my side, glancing over at Christian. He's under the sheets as well, fast asleep, an arm draped over his eyes and forehead.

When I turn to look over at the alarm clock, I see its eight-thirty. He usually leaves before that time for work. Then I remember that it's the weekend now, and that's probably why he's sleeping in. It's a Saturday, I think. He doesn't work on Saturday's or Sundays.

I sit up fully, pushing both feet and legs out of the sheets, extricating my way off the bed without managing to wake him. I stand, shaking from head to toe at the cold draft in the room. Last night is still so confusing to me. I feel ashamed at what I let happen, something I probably shouldn't have in the first place. I let us kiss and make-out and there was a part of me, a very strange sick irrational part of me, that actually enjoyed it. I don't understand how that can be at all. The only rational explanation that I can come up with is that I'm confused.

It's been a very overwhelming experience being stuck here, and clearly I'm not thinking straight. I know that once I get out, things will become clearer and more rational. It's just being stuck in this house and being stuck _with him_ that is doing this to me. I feel like I'm going insane due to being here, and once I get out, my head will be cleared and I won't be so confused.

I'm thankful that I only agreed to just kissing, though. I know if I had allowed us to do more, if he hadn't been as respectful and patient, then I would be feeling way worse and guilty than I do now.

I listen for the sounds of Christian waking once I slip out of his bedroom, yet the penthouse still remains silent.

I head up the stairs to the room where the dresser is where he put all the clothes he brought for me inside it, closing it quietly before getting changed hastily into a fresh pair of clothes. By the time I'm done, reopening the door, I still can't hear him awake and moving about. He must be really tired this morning.

I step out along the narrow hallway, my eyes landing on a shut door that I haven't looked into before. _Would he mind if I opened it and did look inside it or would he be annoyed I'm snooping around? Do I even truly care what he thinks?_

Deciding to take my chances, I slip my fingers around the doorknob, twisting the door open. He hasn't bothered to lock the room up, so surely there can't be anything in there he doesn't want me to see, could there? He would have locked it up otherwise in case I tried to look in the room.

I start to feel as if I'm in a heroine in a horror movie as I slowly peek around the crack of the door, finding it well lit and open with no curtains covering the window. There's no creepy bodies or anything horrific by the looks of things, so I figure I'm safe.

It's a room in his house that I haven't looked in yet, on the upper floor. It must be a spare room that he uses as his own personal gym, because I see there's a treadmill standing against the wall, as well as a boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. Other things stacked around the floor as well, like old newspapers, magazines, and shoe-boxes; probably some items he couldn't figure out where to put in his penthouse so he used the room as storage.

He hasn't told me not to step into this room or not go looking around his house so I figure he won't mind that I am. There's a shoe-box sitting close by the entryway, the cardboard not squished in like all the others. My curiosity getting the better of me, I kneel down near it, leaning against the wall while opening the box carefully.

I can't see anything important inside. Just what looks like old newspaper clippings and a few other things. They obviously mean something to him, though; He's taken care to stack all the newspaper clippings neatly on top of the contents underneath so they won't get torn. He obviously doesn't want them to get damaged. When I pick one at random, holding it up to my eyes carefully with my thumb and forefinger at the corner, reading the headline, I feel my heart rate increase.

YOUNG BOY IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER BEING LEFT STANDING UNDER SCALDING HOT SHOWER

These are _all_ about _him_ , I realize. _He_ was that young boy and he's bothered to keep all the newspaper articles about what happened to himself when he was little. Why would he want to collect them, though? Surely he wouldn't want them as reminders, of something so bad and painful that had happened to him? Or maybe he does?

I put the newspaper cutting where I found it, rummaging around in the box. I know it's probably wrong, what I'm doing, and if he so happened to wake and come up here to find me, he'll more than likely be mad. But I'm curious and more than a little sickly fascinated.

There's a patch of light blue fabric that seems to be off a quilt or a young child's blanket. You can tell it's old, because it smells and dust clings to it. The edges are uneven and singed slightly, as if someone held a cigarette lighter to it, intending to catch it on fire. There's even some little dots and specks of something red on it, like paint, which confuses me into what it is, until it kind of dawns onto me. Blood. There's specks of old, dried blood on the patch of the blanket. _His_ blood?

My stomach churning in uneasiness, I search around again, my fingers landing on something that feels scarily enough like thick human hair. When I pull it out, I realize with horror that that is exactly what it is. It _is_ a lock of human hair; Long and thick and a dark brown, held together by what seems to be old sticky tape looped around the ends. _Why the hell would he have human hair in a box? Who does the lock of hair belong to? Can he be anymore serial killer right now?_

Chucking it back into the box with disgust, I spot something else that captures my attention.

There's a photograph, fairly old and crinkled at the edges. I lift it up, scrutinizing it curiously. It's a young woman, about in her early twenties; her stomach engorged and swollen because she's in in the late stages of pregnancy. When I turn it over to glance at the white backing, I see there's writing. Someone's bothered to write on it, probably even Christian himself.

 _Ella, 1982._

Who is she and why would Christian have a picture of her kept away? Is she the woman who the lock of hair belongs to?

All of this, the patch of blanket with the dots of blood, the lock of hair, and the photo especially... they must be something considered deeply special and meaningful to him if he's placed them all securely in an old shoe-box for safekeeping.

I look at her face again, at the clothes she is wearing, this heavily pregnant young woman. Her hair is dark brown and I realize how much I almost look like her. Her nose seems similarly shaped to mine, her eyes are even the same shade as mine, and her brunette hair and the shape of her pale face. _Who is she? Why the fuck does she look so much like me? Is that a secret reason as to why he chose to have me here? To do this to me? Because I look like this woman? This-_

 _Oh, shit!_

I hear the floorboards creak out in the hallway as footsteps move stealthily along the carpet, but by the time I stand, my knees cracking, it's already far too late and I've been caught out in the act. I spin around towards the doorway warily, my eyes landing on Christian from where he stands, fully awake now, dressed in black jeans and a sky blue button-up business shirt. His gray eyes dart around the room warily before they land back onto me. I have no idea what he is thinking at all or what he will do now that he's caught me in the room, going through his things. But then his eyes drop to the photograph I'm still holding clenched in my fingers, his expression unreadable. I don't know whether he's mad at all.

"I woke and noticed you were gone from the bed. I didn't expect you to be up here?" I feel my body loosen at the tone of his voice. He doesn't sound angry at all, at the very least.

"I... I was just curious," I stammer, feeling like a kid being caught on doing something wrong. Then again, why should I feel guilty? He should have locked the door if he didn't want me in here. "I realized that I haven't been in this room before."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it isn't really much. I just use it as both a storage room and a gym." His eyes focus on the photograph I'm still holding again. "That was my mother," he says quietly, jerking his chin towards it. "It's the only photograph I have of her. She was pregnant with me in it."

 _His mother? Oh. I guess that explains it then._

I peer down at the photo of the young woman again, seeing it immediately with brand new eyes. She was the one that made him stand under the shower, she was the reason he sustained such severe burns to his body. She's the reason he is how he is today. _And she looks a lot like me..._

"She seemed very young when she had you?"

"I think she was around nineteen." I watch him nervously when he comes closer, then he bends down, looking through the box himself. I'm still waiting for something to happen. For an explosion of anger, even. "This was my blanket," he explains, his fingers stroking that dirty patch of fabric, almost tenderly. "And with those cuttings, as you can see... I made the newspaper."

I'm still horrified by the lock of hair in there. "I saw a lock of hair in there?" I say, unable to conceal my horror. "Whose hair is it? Who does it belong to?"

It don't think he is very happy with me asking. He takes the photo out from my hand forcefully, shoving it back into the box without even one glance at it. He stows the lid back on the box roughly. "It was my mother's," he says tersely.

" _Why_ does she look so much like me?" I demand, unable to shake the fear out of my voice. "Your mother? She looks a lot like me? Brunette hair, blue eyes? Same head shape and facial structure?"

His eyes flash with what seems to be anger and I step back instinctively when he stands, facing me. "You're _nothing_ like her, Anastasia." His voice is harsh and loud, a tone I don't think I have ever heard from him before, not while being here as long as I have. "You may have the same hair and eye color, yes. But the woman, she was _nothing more_ than an abusive bitch. You're _nothing_ like her." He inhales in shakily, closing his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them again to fix his stare onto me, I'm relieved that his anger has gone. His eyes shine with remorse, with shame over losing his temper on me. "Now I thought that we could go out for a drive today," he says, making his tone gentler and even. "The weathers meant to be nice and I know that we could _both_ do some good in getting out of the house for a while. I'll meet you downstairs once you're ready."

I say nothing as I watch him leave the room, my body shaking by his outburst. I don't understand why he got so angry, because it's true, isn't it? I _do_ look very similar to her in that photo, and it must have been why he chose to do this to me. He must be looking for someone to replace his mother or... I don't know.

I'm so shaken that it takes me a moment too late for his words to properly sink in. _He wants to take me out for a drive?_ While I feel pleased about that, it confuses me. It's the early morning hours, daytime. Last time he took me out, he was overly paranoid that a police car was following us. Why would he agree to take me for a drive now unless... he's expecting to get caught and he doesn't care anymore now? Either way, his true intentions don't matter right now. What matters is that he's letting me get out of the enclosure of his penthouse for a few hours.

When I get downstairs, I find him sitting on the couch, waiting for me. There's a pair of brand new, unworn shoes across from him. Women shoes. Sandals.

"I thought you might need some shoes to wear," he mutters quietly, not quite looking in my eyes. He watches his hands as he clenches and opens them repetitively. I know it's because he still feels guilty over his outburst in front of me. "I'm assuming it would be a little suspicious if I let you walk around without a pair of shoes on, wouldn't it?"

I sit down opposite him, dragging the sandals towards my feet. Surprisingly, they are a perfect fit. They don't pinch or feel uncomfortable. Christian clearly knows even my foot size. "Thanks but... where are we going for a drive to?" I ask nervously, still in disbelief. "Last time you let me, you were only keen on taking me for drives when it wasn't daylight and when the traffic wasn't busy because you didn't want to risk anyone seeing me in your car with you?"

"Yes, well. It doesn't really matter anymore if anyone sees you or recognizes you," he says evasively. "You won't be in my car for long anyway."

There is something distant and emotionless in his tone that frightens me. Why would he not care about being cautious anymore? And what does he mean when he says that I won't be in his car for very long? My skin prickles with suspicion and fear. Is he going to do something to me once we reach our destination? Does he intend to do something to me? Dispose of me? Kill me?

"What do you mean, Christian?" I ask cautiously, though I'm not entirely sure I want to even know the answer. "Why doesn't it matter anymore if anyone recognizes me? Why wouldn't I be in your car for long?"

He doesn't answer me which makes me feel even more apprehensive. He simply shakes his head and stands, pulling a set of car keys out from his trouser pocket. "Let's go, Anastasia. We really have to hurry before I change my mind."

I stand, but I don't know whether I want to leave with him or not. Something bad is going to happen, and I can almost sense it. He's going to do something.

"What about my wrist? Aren't you going to do what you did before with the cable tie? What if I try to run off and escape?"

Christian shows me his back while he slides the key card into the elevator. He steps in, and then he holds his hand in between the self-closing doors to stop the movement so I can get in with him. I still don't want to, but I do anyway, forcing my legs to move as I stand beside him, my heart racing. I know that something bad is happening, and I can't shake that awful feeling.

I feel sick and tense by the time the elevators open on the ground floor. He lets me walk out first, and it's strange, not being restricted to his wrist by a cable tie. It feels so strange and wrong that I even almost start to miss it.

I follow Christian towards one of his cars, falling behind. I could easily make a run for it, right now. I could dart off into another direction, running through the garage exit while screaming at the top of my lungs to anybody who hears me. Would he even bother to stop me? Would he even follow? Only I don't. Something forces me to oblige, to be good.

He unlocks the doors and I climb inside, fastening my seat belt. Christian clicks his seat belt on, adjusts the mirrors, and then he starts the car, reversing out of the driveway. The instance we get outside of the garage, I feel like an alien person, someone who has arrived on this foreign and unknown planet. It's sunny this morning and the instance the sun reflects in my eyes, I'm blinded momentarily from the lack of it these past few weeks. It's busy, as it's a weekend, and I'm astonished by all the people out on the streets, walking.

There are _so many_ people, people everywhere. Wrapped up in their own private daily worlds without a care in the world. So _many people_ that could hear me shout for help, hear me scream.

It's amazing how when something like this happens to you, you learn never to take these things for granted ever again. And it's so beautiful, _everything_ is so beautiful and busy and bursting with color. I just wish I knew what was happening and what Christian intends to do with me.

When he signals and parks on the side of the street, I feel as if a cold ice block has slivered through my stomach. I turn my head to look at him, only Christian isn't looking my way. He is staring at something across the street, his eyes squinted in the light, his forehead creased. His expression is impossible to work out, but it seems as if a million thoughts are whirling by in his head. When he finally turns to look at me, he gives me a small smile that's both kindly reassuring and sad, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"See that phone booth over there, Anastasia," he mutters quietly, pointing it out to me. I follow his gaze and I see it, surely enough. A lone phone booth with no one using it. I don't understand why he is bothering to point it out to me though, but I get my answer when he continues. "I want you to go over to it and call the police. I'll just sit here and wait."

As his words form and make sense into my brain, making me panic, I glance at him again in wide-eyed disbelief, discovering him watching me. "Call the police?" I repeat, my voice croaky. "Why... why would you want me to call the police, Christian?"

I can't tell whether this is a test or not. Is he testing me? Is this a big joke to him?

His eyes search mine for a moment, the smile fading from his lips. I realize he looks utterly desperate. Desperate and broken. "You _know_ why and I'm so sorry," he says, in a barely audible voice. "This can't go on. I think it's been going on long enough, wouldn't you?" He glances away from me for a moment, his gray eyes moistening. He looks suddenly so empty, so... hollow. "This is what I deserve," he whispers unevenly, shaking his head. "I _deserve_ this for what I've done to you."

"You're _actually_ letting me go?" The realization slowly permeates through all the shock. "You're letting me get out of this car and leave? How... how can I believe you?"

"I _am_ letting you go, and you can believe me. It's true." He smiles at me but it doesn't touch his eyes. His eyes remain wet, hollow. Shameful. "I realize what I've done now. I wanted you to... to love me, but _not_ like this. Never like this." Reaching an arm behind his seat, he pulls something out to hand it to me. It's the handbag I took to the club. My handbag and phone. He truly _is_ letting me go. "You need to go. I'm so sorry for everything."

I do it before it gets too late. Ignoring my impulse to comfort him, to thank him, I throw off my seat belt and wrench the door open, still too stunned and in shock to properly process it all, of what he's doing, how he's letting me go.

The sun hits my skin, warming me, as I step out onto the pavement. I don't turn to look inside the car as I slam the door shut. He's letting me go. I'm free, and I can feel the sun again and I'm now like everyone else. Free, walking down the street. I don't even realize I'm crying out of sheer relief and happiness until I feel the tears course down my cheeks freely. How I feel, all the sensations and happiness... it's indescribable, bursting out from my bones all at once.

 _I'm free. No more being stuck confined and restricted to the walls of his penthouse._

 _I'm free._

It's only when I reach the end of the street that I turn back to look behind my shoulder at the car. Christian's still sitting in it, waiting. I can hardly make his face out properly in the glare of the sun reflecting on the windshield, through the tinted windows. But I know what I'll do, and I don't care if he believes that I should, that he deserves it for what he's done. In my eyes, he doesn't deserve to go to jail or to be taken away by the police, not anymore. Now that I've gotten to know him as a person and have liked who he is, calling the police and doing what he suggests is something I would never consider. Maybe it's a strange psychological effect of being alienated for weeks with only him as a person to interact with, or maybe it's something to do with my personal feelings and how I truly feel for him. What I feel, it's complicated.

But I don't make it over to the phone booth. I don't end up calling the police.

 **I am so nervous that it's going to be a disappointment due to the direction I've taken it, but things will happen in the next chapter. This is where the Beauty and The Beast inspiration comes into it; Something will happen, and Ana will be back. Just hope you'll bear with me :-)**


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